


Find Me Well Within Your Grace

by Lostinfantasies38



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Best Friends, Bittersweet Ending, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Brief Mention of Child Death, Circle Tower (Dragon Age), Consensual Underage Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Lost Love, Lyrium Addiction, M/M, Men Crying, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Psychological Trauma, Regret, Separations, Survivor Guilt, Teen Angst, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 84,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23011543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostinfantasies38/pseuds/Lostinfantasies38
Summary: Alistair meets Cullen as a boy in Bournshire and he is sure this boy will be no better than the other recruits, once he learns who he is. Yet, he proves him wrong and a friendship is formed. A friendship that will grow into something real and lasting. A bond that will see them through darkspawn and demons, separation and loss.But when the Blight is over, will things remain the same? Can they truly expect it to when they are no longer the boys they once were?Part 1 of 3 - This part focuses on the boys' youth to just after the Blight.Updated tags - please read and decide if this fic is still for you 5/13/20
Relationships: Alistair/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 164
Kudos: 50





	1. New Recruit

**Author's Note:**

> Story title comes from Transfigurations 12:14. It came to me the other day and I realized it was too perfect not to use. Thanks for reading! 💛

**Cloudreach 6, 9:24 Dragon**

The quick, clipped footsteps of the Mother indicated her arrival long before she rapped her knuckles sharply against the wooden door frame announcing her presence. Alistair bent into a short bow, his eyes demurely cast down to avoid looking at the older woman’s stately visage, which so often displayed aggravation and disappointment in equal measure when dealing with him.

“Alistair. I’d like you to meet Cullen.” He inclined his head politely at the boy standing slightly behind her and the other boy returned the gesture. “He is our newest recruit and is to be your roommate. Be a good lad and help him get acquainted as he settles in.” 

The Revered Mother faced the curly haired blonde and Alistair resisted the urge to roll his eyes when her back was turned. How was he supposed to help him get ‘acquainted’ anyway when none of the other recruits socialized with him? Surely, there was a spare bed elsewhere in the monastery? He detested giving up his solitude when it was the only respite he had. 

Swallowing a groan, he realized the Mother was likely using this as a form of permanent punishment. Maker knows she hated him since he was constantly in trouble with his witticisms and fights outside of the training ring. She probably (wrongly) assumed that Cullen would be a good example for him or would keep him in line. But the problem wasn’t him…well, not completely. 

He never started the fights, but Maker, he made sure he finished them. Breaking Thad’s nose the other day was the most satisfying thing he’d done in a while. Almost as good as knocking Darren on his ass during their spar two days ago, earning him a grudging nod of approval from Ser Miles. The recruits enjoyed informing him that he would amount to nothing as a warrior since he had no honor. Although, he couldn’t fathom how his father’s lack of honor upholding his marriage vows reflected on him and his own skills, especially as he’d never even met the man. 

Idiots, the lot of them. And he doubted that Cullen would be much better. 

The Mother finished relaying important information to the new recruit, explaining when meals were held, and that he wouldn’t be expected to start his training for a couple of days to give him time to adjust. Cullen bowed in imitation of Alistair’s earlier genuflection. Casting a final glance at Alistair with her steel blue gaze the woman thankfully departed.

Breathing a sigh of relief at her exit, Alistair waved the other youth into the room. It contained two small beds, tucked on opposite walls, with a dresser in between directly underneath the window. The storage would be easy enough to share – Alistair’s clothing only filled the top drawer leaving the other three empty and available for Cullen’s use. The recruits had few personal items to begin with, in a bid to keep them on equal footing, but Alistair had fewer than most.

The blonde nodded shyly as he entered and tossed his nondescript pack on the far bed that Alistair indicated and silently began to unpack. Alistair shoved his boots under his bed and sat down with an audible huff. Cullen’s eyes flicked to his with uncertainty, but he relaxed at Alistair’s good-natured smile.

“Sorry, I should probably introduce myself, officially. I’m Alistair, known troublemaker and bane of the Revered Mother’s existence.” Cullen snorted softly and turned to clasp Alistair’s extended hand.

“Cullen Rutherford.” 

His grip was firm, but not crushing, which surprised Alistair. He was used to the others using a show of force to demonstrate his inferiority. It made him wonder how long Cullen’s own respect would last, but he shoved the depressing thought aside to maintain his jovial demeanor.

“Uh, the last three drawers are empty. You’re welcome to them.” Cullen nodded again with a quick smile as he began to move his things from the bed to the dresser. “So…um, how’d you end up here?”

Cullen glanced at him in surprise, his hazel eyes marginally wider as he blinked owlishly. “I asked to join. Didn’t you?”

It was Alistair’s turn to stare in astonishment at his roommate. “Uhhh, no. I can’t say that I did. Nor did most of the others here.” 

“Oh. I-I’m sorry.” Cullen fidgeted under Alistair’s stunned golden brown gaze, afraid he spoke thoughtlessly and offended him.

Alistair schooled his features and smiled graciously while waving away his apology. “Don’t be. Water under the bridge, as they say.” He squinted at Cullen mentally gauging his age. “You’re a bit older than the usual recruit though.”

The young man blushed, highlighting his high cheekbones under his fair skin. “Ah…yes, I’m thirteen. It took a few years to convince my family and the local Templars that I was worth taking.” 

Alistair felt a pang of jealousy when he mentioned his family not wanting him to leave. Who in their right mind would willingly give up a home and people who loved them? He would give anything to have such things. A mother and a father, even annoying brothers and sisters to tease and roughhouse with. Cullen gave all that up to be here of his own volition. Alistair wanted to strangle the Revered Mother right now – they couldn’t be more opposite and would never have anything in common. But that didn’t mean he would treat Cullen with the same unwarranted mean-spiritedness the others rained on him.

Clearing his throat to break the tension, Alistair asked, “Are you hungry? Dinner won’t be for a few hours yet, but I’m sure I can convince Marguerite to get you a small plate of cold cuts to tide you over, if you like.” 

Cullen nodded and waited for him to slip on his boots, following with barely concealed excitement as the older boy showed him a shortcut to the kitchen. It didn’t escape his notice that Alistair purposefully avoided the main hallways whenever possible and snuck around corners furtively. He wondered if what they were doing was not allowed, but right now he was too hungry to care, and tiptoed behind his roommate without protest.

The kitchen was at the very back of the square shaped abbey. It was bustling with maids under the brusque direction of a plump middle-aged woman with graying brown hair in a braided bun on her nape who must be the head cook. As Alistair walked in, he shot the woman a winning smile while she rolled her eyes, but she laughed pleasantly when he wrapped her a tight hug. 

He must have had a recent growth spurt as he stood considerably taller than the woman and his short tunic that should sit below his belt exposed a swath of bronze skin at the movement. Cullen noted various kitchen maids eyeing Alistair appreciatively and flushed with embarrassment for him.

“Margie! I’ve missed you.” 

The cook chuckled, smacking him fondly across his chest while shaking her head. “You were just here this morning, my boy. Don’t think I didn’t see you dashing out the back door with an extra sticky bun. I don’t know where you put it! Now, what can I do for you this time?”

Alistair glanced at him over his shoulder and waved him into the heated room. The maids stopped ogling the older boy in favor of sizing him up and he blushed a deeper shade of red as self-consciousness washed over him. Seeing his discomfort, the cook clapped her hands with a scowl, sending the maids scattering to their posts to resume their work on dinner.

“This is Cullen. Cullen, meet Marguerite, the most amazing cook in all of Thedas!” 

The woman scoffed at the exaggeration while nodding to him in greeting. Her gray eyes widened in surprise when Cullen gave a short bow, murmuring politely, “Madam. It is a pleasure to meet you.” 

When he rose, Margie was quite pink and Alistair slapped him on the back with a soft chuckle. Muttering under his breath, he teased, “I think you just earned the heart of every woman here, Cullen.” The blonde cast his eyes about the kitchen, cognizant of the breathless stares of the young women in the room, and swallowed hard to steady his nerves.

Margie shook herself from her stupor and clapped her hands again until the chamber was bustling around them once more. Her gaze returned to the boys and she smiled warmly as she filled a plate with cold cuts, blocks of cheese, and a couple of fresh rolls smeared with a generous dollop of raspberry jam. 

Shooing them into a sheltered corner, she whispered to Alistair, “Best eat here, dear. I don’t want you getting in trouble for helping a friend.” 

Snagging a stool, Alistair used it as a table and indicated Cullen should start while he wove his way through the chaos to pour them each a mug of watered-down wine. The maids flirted as he passed and he teased them back, his rich laughter booming around the room, ceasing all work as the girls paused and regarded him with obvious interest. 

Cullen was envious of his easy-going nature and natural affinity for humor. It seemed he made friends, or at least caused women to swoon, with virtually no effort. It was hardly surprising; even he could admit that Alistair was handsome with dark blonde hair tinged with auburn, eyes similarly colored to his own, and a square jawline that hinted at the man beneath his youthful countenance.

Handing him a mug, they saluted each other and took a sip. Cullen’s lips pursed at the first swig of wine and Alistair chuckled. 

“Sorry. They only bring in well-water for the recruits after training or at meals. Everyone else on the premises drinks wine since we lost our sole milk producing goat over the winter.”

Cullen shrugged, not wanting to admit it was only the second time in his life sampling the fermented beverage. “Its fine. Just more tart than I was expecting after the jam.” Sparing a glance at the youth next to him, he murmured, “Are we not allowed to be here?”

Alistair shook his head with a mischievous smile. “Not…technically. But I come here a lot because Margie is the only one who is…” He sighed and slammed back the rest of his wine. “It doesn’t matter. Are you finished, then?” His gaze fell on the empty plate and Cullen’s mug. The blonde quickly drained the cup and passed them to Alistair with a grateful nod. 

Repeating his path through the kitchen, he spoke quietly to Margie as he washed their dishes with the fresh bucket of dish water. She dried them as they talked and Cullen observed the maternal touch on his elbow and the subtle way Alistair leaned into her. His stomach knotted with…guilt? Shame? Embarrassment, surely, for witnessing such a tender moment, but now he better understood the brief cloud that passed over Alistair’s face when he told him he volunteered to join the Order. For the first time since leaving Honnleath, homesickness overrode his pervasive excitement. He’d probably never see his family again and it dawned on him how much he was sacrificing to live his dream.

Needing something to occupy his hands, Cullen snatched the stool and returned it from where Alistair found it. Weaving his way through the bustling kitchen with less grace than his roommate, Cullen headed towards the door, averting his eyes when Alistair hugged Margie. From his periphery he saw her red, scarred hands – working woman’s hands – cup his face tenderly and he bent down to place a soft kiss to her crown. 

Scuffing the floor with the toe of his boot uncomfortably, Cullen straightened when Margie ambled towards him with a gentle smile. Alistair’s back was to them, but he registered the young man brushing the back of his hand across his eyes and Cullen’s stomach twisted again.

“Cullen, it was wonderful to meet you. You’re welcome here anytime. You and Alistair are the only ones I will give free rein of my kitchen to, though, so don’t let the other boys find out or I’ll never have enough food to feed you all! Now, you best go and stop distracting my girls. They can’t concentrate with you two dazzling them.” He ducked his head with a furious blush and promised that he wouldn’t breathe a word as she shooed them out.

Alistair breezed past him and led them back along the same winding route to their room. Despite his efforts to remain unnoticed, a small group of recruits blocked the final hallway, and Cullen barreled into Alistair when he suddenly stopped.

“Shit,” the older boy muttered. 

Cullen’s brow furrowed as he peeked around the taller boy. Pulling himself to his full height, Alistair strode stiffly down the corridor, trying to ignore the smirks and nudges of the vultures circling their prey. 

“Alistair, we’ve been waiting for you. We heard there was a new recruit and he’d been bunked with you.” 

Remaining impassive, his jaw worked back and forth as the four bullies fanned along the hallway, blocking their path. Calculating the odds, Alistair knew he could take down two in rapid succession if need be, but he was trying to avoid getting in trouble after the punishment he received last week for smashing Thad’s nose. Instead, he crossed his arms with affected boredom.

“And why do you care exactly?”

The leader, Hugh, was a rough-edged youth the same age as Alistair who hated him the moment he learned he grew up in a castle. Never mind that he didn’t spend his nights in silk sheets and was instead treated as less than by pretty much everyone, even the servants. Finding solace with the dogs and the horses, he befriended the groomsmen and a handful of the knights during the ensuing years, but was largely ignored by Eamon and the other castle residents.

Hugh’s malicious smile made Alistair’s blood boil. They thought to intimidate him and fill the new boy’s ears with slander before he’d even spent a full day behind the walls! Cold and spiteful, purposefully choosing every day to be cruel, for no concrete reason except the circumstances of his birth. They were the bastards – not him. 

“We wanted to make sure he knows that there are better people to associate with. Can’t let your stain rub off on him, after all.”

The boys crowded closer and Cullen perceived Alistair’s posture shift – shoulders slightly hunched, feet widening into a defensive stance, fists clenched at his sides. In an instant, he was coiled to spring and Cullen had no doubt the older boy was well versed in how to throw a punch. He wondered how often he put up with this harassment, but before anyone could get physical, the heavy clang of armored footsteps rang behind him. 

The four bullies fell into a single line, slamming their shoulders into Alistair as they passed with mocking grins. Alistair relaxed as they disappeared around a corner and gently laid an arm across Cullen’s chest to press his back against the wall so the armored men could fit in the narrow hallway. They appraised Alistair with cool indifference as they strolled past while he stared at the wall opposite with unfocused eyes. Once they were gone, Alistair jerked his head and Cullen tagged along gloomily. 

Upon reaching their room, Alistair slammed the door and leaned heavily against it, eyelids squeezed shut and jaw clenched, before sighing and flopping onto his bed. One arm draped across his face shielding him from view, the other tapped an anxious tattoo on his thigh. Cullen sat on the edge of his own bed, chewing his lower lip nervously, unsure what he should say or do.

Halting his finger tapping, Alistair raised his hand and dramatically twirled it in the air, features still obscured. “Go ahead. I know you’re dying to ask what that was all about.”

Cullen nodded and then realized he couldn’t see him, so he croaked, “Yes, I am curious. But you don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”

Alistair barked a laugh, bitter and sharp, not like the comfortable laughter shared only half an hour ago in the kitchen and other boy winced. “If I don’t tell you now, you’ll just hear a bunch of bullshit later and assume the worst about me and demand to be bunked with someone else.”

“No,” Cullen whispered. “I wouldn’t do that, Alistair.” The boy peeked at him from under his elbow, eyebrow arched into his hairline skeptically. 

“You don’t even know me, Cullen.”

“It seems to me that they are the ones who don’t know you. I’ve known you less than an hour and you’ve already secreted me into the kitchens,” the blonde replied with a grin.

Alistair snorted and returned the grin with a broad one of his own. Sitting up, he raked a hand through his hair and breathed deeply. Crossing his long legs on the bed he spun to face Cullen, yet was unable to hold his steady gaze when he blurted, “I’m a bastard! You know… the fatherless kind.”

He shot an apprehensive glance to Cullen and released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding to find the boy’s expression unchanged when he continued. 

“Never mind that all Templar recruits give up their surnames, cutting familial ties and dedicating themselves to the Maker, and all that… it’s still a _stain_ that I can’t scrub off my life.”

Cullen tilted his head and frowned. “So, they all dislike you because you don’t know who your father is?”

Growling, Alistair wadded his thin blanket in his fists and spat. “I bloody know who he is and that’s why I can never… _defend_ myself against them. And the few times that I have, albeit without naming names, I’ve been the one with a cane across my back while they walk away with a vague ‘don’t do it again’ speech that everyone knows they aren’t going to obey.” 

Sighing wearily, his broad shoulders slumped with misery. “Although, it’s not like telling them will be any better, so I just have to suffer in silence. But my damn tongue gets me in trouble as often as my fists do.”

The younger boy’s curiosity was admittedly piqued. Cullen wanted to ask who his father was and discover why it was such a closely guarded secret, but he didn’t. Most of all though, he disliked that Alistair was the target of blatant animosity for something beyond his control and his stomach threatened to return his lunch to him at the thought of the Sisters beating him, merely for sticking up for himself. He knew from gossip around his village that being labeled a ‘bastard’ was a slur, but he couldn’t personally understand how that was the fault of the child who didn’t ask to be born. 

“Is that really the only reason they bully you?”

Alistair smirked, “Oh, is my scathing wit a character flaw now?” Cullen chuckled softly and Alistair’s chest lightened for a moment before he sobered with a shrug. “Isn’t bastardom enough? There are others here in the same situation, but none with my…” He rubbed a hand roughly down his face and continued. 

“Let’s just say, that even though no one knows for a fact who my father is, there has been… speculation. I was a ward of Arl Eamon’s until I was ten, so a lot of them assume he is my father. The noble recruits look down their noses at me for besmirching the nobility and the lower-class boys think I put on airs and despise me.” 

Spreading his hands in defeat, he frowned. “I can’t win for losing and Maker – believe me, I have tried.”

Cullen scowled with a huff. “That’s ridiculous! They don’t even know you and they choose to treat you with such disdain? It’s despicable.”

The older boy’s lips curved, eyes flashing with mirth. “Cullen, that sounds suspiciously like something a friend would say when coming to their defense.”

Nodding emphatically, Cullen hopped off his bed and clapped Alistair on the shoulder with a small smile. “Because I am, Alistair. Your parentage doesn’t make you a good man – your actions do. And in the span of an hour, you’ve shown me kindness when you didn’t have to while they’ve shown me nothing, but their ass.” Grasping him by the forearm, he pulled him into the center of the room. “I am your friend and anyone who bullies you will have to deal with me, too.”

Alistair swallowed hard, nodding wordlessly, squeezing his arm tightly. After a few moments, he regained control of his voice, “Thank you, Cullen. I admit this was the last thing I expected. I didn’t take you to the kitchen just to twist your arm into taking pity on me and I’m not sure how friendships work, but –“

A warm chuckle stopped Alistair’s anxious torrent of words. “I know you didn’t. You did it because you’re nice, Alistair, anyone who pays attention can see it. I-I’ve never had a friend either, only very loud siblings.” He rolled his eyes at the irritating memories of his relatives and Alistair barked out a short laugh, the one that sounded like him, and Cullen smirked. 

Releasing each other they remained in the middle of the room, their smiles growing larger with each passing second until they burst into simultaneous laughter. If anyone were to walk in and ask them why, neither of them would have been able to explain. 

Stumbling to Cullen’s bed, they tumbled on the mattress, legs hanging over the edge until their fit subsided. Panting breathlessly, interspersed with the occasional giggle, they sprawled out and marveled at the warmth coursing through them. 

Alistair couldn’t believe how beatifically the Mother’s plan backfired. He was certain the biddy paired Cullen – a shy, devout Andrastrian, who walked away from his family to devote his life to the Maker – with him to cow him into submission and accept his path as a Templar. Yet, this skinny blonde kid decided on a whim to be his friend and it was probably the best thing to ever happen to him. 

Cullen, for his part, ran a finger idly along the coin in his pocket that his brother slipped him the day he left for training. “A good luck token,” he said, even though Cullen knew better. Now however, he would have to write Branson and tell him that he was right, after all.

Rolling his head to face Cullen on the bed, Alistair asked. “So, do you want an official tour of the abbey now? We have time to kill before dinner.”

Quirking an eyebrow over his bright amber eyes, Cullen smiled, “You say ‘official’ as though there is an ‘unofficial’ tour, as well.” Alistair’s lips pulled into a wide grin and Cullen half-groaned, half-laughed as he sat up. “Alright, fine. Let’s not get caught.”

Alistair leapt off the bed with a whoop and together they exited the room sneaking down side passages that probably hadn’t seen anyone besides the boy leading the way for the past two Ages. Pausing at the foot of a steep flight of stairs, Alistair murmured, “Careful, the stones are very worn. It’s easy to trip and the stairs curve, so keep a hand on the wall for balance.” 

Cullen followed his friend’s instructions, his right hand grasping the edges of the ancient stones as his toes quested each step before he put his full weight on them. Alistair stopped on the final stair and grunted softly under the scrape of stone against stone as he pushed aside the slab blocking the entrance of the room above.

Cullen carefully crept up the few remaining stairs, clasping the hand awaiting him that yanked him with ease into the empty chamber. It was a circular tower with arrow slits dotting the walls and a high timbered ceiling. He spun in amazement, drinking in the spacious room that could easily house ten archers along the walls and still have space in the center. 

“I thought this was a monastery, but this is a fortified tower,” he breathed in awe.

Alistair nodded with enthusiasm, his smile so wide he thought his face would split in two. “I found it by accident my second year here and read up on the local lore in the library. This used to be a bann’s estate, but when the line died out the last bann gifted the estate in his will to the Chantry, and they converted it into an abbey. The tower was sealed off and forgotten.” 

He watched Cullen admire the tower with excitement, thrilled to finally have someone to share his find with. Now, he wouldn’t always be here alone, wishing that he had a friend to talk to and ease his loneliness.

Peeking out one of the archeres, Cullen murmured, “Where are we, anyway? I don’t see anything I recognize.”

“South Tower. Here.” Waving him over to the left, Alistair pointed out an arrow loop. “You can see the square from this angle.” 

Leaning forward, he pressing his face against the smooth stone, and gasped. “Maker’s breath! You can see everything up here! Look, the village is beyond that hill – I can see the thatching on the roofs!”

Chuckling quietly to keep the echoes to a minimum, Alistair grabbed his hand and dragged him two slits to the right, and pointed out the crevice. “See that copse of trees? That’s the one our room faces. I sometimes sneak off there by myself after training. It’s quiet and hidden. I can show you. In case you ever need a break, you can hide out there.” 

The blonde grinned at him and nodded. “As long as you really don’t mind giving up your secret. You’ve already shown me the tower and the kitchen. Pretty soon you won’t have any left,” he teased. 

Alistair flushed and scuffed the floor with his boot. “Well, what good are secret hideaways if you can’t share them with your friend?” 

Cullen noted the way Alistair fidgeted and his chest constricted with sadness. He briefly wondered if he’d known any joy prior to this moment. “Agreed. We’ll share them.” 

Alistair’s face lit up with delight and he opened his mouth to respond when a bell pealed in the encroaching gloom. Their eyes widened and they moved at the same time for the stairs. Cullen went first, carefully sneaking down the steps, pausing halfway to make sure Alistair secured the entrance without jamming a finger. Slinking around him, Alistair snatched his hand and led them rapidly down the stairwell. Cullen swallowed his anxiety regarding Alistair’s earlier warning about the smooth stairs and trusted him to get them to level ground in one piece. 

Once on the floor again, he released his hand and placed a finger to his lips. Encouraged by Cullen’s curt nod, he wove them through a dizzying number of side passages that spit them out into the main square. In the light, they discovered they were covered in centuries of dirt from the tower, and they dusted themselves off as best as they could in between snorts of laughter. 

Another group of boys were passing through the square, so they slipped nonchalantly among their number as Alistair drolled in a bored voice about training times while Cullen hummed at appropriate intervals. The others ignored them as they entered the monastery and headed for the dining hall. 

Halfway through the corridor, Alistair dragged Cullen into the bathing room and tossed him a towel. “If the Revered Mother sees that dirt patch on your face, she’ll have both our hides.” Dipping their towels in the nearest pool they quickly scrubbed all exposed skin before tossing them in the dirty pile and resuming their trek to the hall for dinner. 

Leading the way to an empty bench towards the back, the boys sank onto the wooden seat with soft sighs of relief. The Revered Mother introduced Cullen to the other recruits, bidding him to rise as his face and neck warmed under the combined scrutiny of his fellows, but he straightened, determined to not show any uncertainty. Resuming his seat at the Mother’s nod, she prayed over the meal so the kitchen maids could begin passing out dinner. 

Alistair clapped him lightly on the back. “You did well. The trainers seemed impressed with how well you handled yourself.”

Cullen tucked into the hearty potage with relish, replying after taking a moment to swallow. “Is it a test then?” 

The older boy shrugged, chewing thoughtfully, his brows furrowed slightly as he decided how to respond. “Sort of…maybe? I guess it’s mostly to see how well you handle yourself in new or unexpected circumstances. Typically, the boys that have a hard time maintaining their composure with something simple are also the ones that struggle with training. Especially vigils.” 

Tilting his head with curiosity sent his curls bouncing and Alistair resisted the urge to ruffle them. “Why are vigils a struggle?” 

“Weeeell, anyone can improve their strength and learn to wield a weapon, but not everyone can focus their mind. You need to be able to silence your thoughts and concentrate in order to learn Templar abilities. And if you have a hard time handling intense scrutiny, it’s usually a good tell that you will be unable to focus during vigil. That’s not to say that you can’t _learn,_ of course, it’s merely an quick indicator of someone’s natural abilities.”

Nodding slowly in understanding, Cullen returned to his soup and they finished their supper in comfortable silence. Once the meal was over the Revered Mother dismissed them to their evening activities – some to the chapel for vigil and others for leisure time.

“So, what do you want to do now? It’s a while until curfew.”

“Well…” the blonde’s eyes twinkled and Alistair wondered if all friendships made a person feel weightless. “Is there a chess board here? We could play a game.”

Alistair teasingly rolled his eyes. “Yes, there is one in the library that no one uses. We could take it to our room, but I warn you, I’ve never played. I’m not sure how much fun it will be for you.”

Rocking on his feet eagerly, Cullen shot him a large grin. “I’ve only ever played with my brother and sister, but I could teach you, if you’re willing.” 

The older boy laughed and agreed, once again leading him through the abbey. Cullen’s mouth gaped at the expanse of books lining the shelves, to Alistair’s amusement, but he shook himself when he spotted the chess board. He could come back to the library later, but right now he wanted to teach his new friend how to play his favorite game. 

They played the remainder of the evening going over the rules and strategies while they talked and got better acquainted. They discussed everything from their favorite colors and pastimes to Cullen’s family and Alistair’s reluctance to take vows. Alistair learned that Cullen was afraid of loud noises, but he loved to swim and sing. The older boy teased that Sister Agnes would love having him in choir, as she constantly lamented that none of the boys applied themselves. Cullen was surprised when Alistair admitted to a fear of spiders, of all things, but was pleased to find his friend was a prolific reader with a shared appreciation of history, as well as a dedicated warrior.

Clearing his throat during his next move, Cullen whispered, “I know I’m far behind everyone else here on training. Will you help me? To catch up during practice and keep me from looking too much like a fool?” 

Calloused fingers froze over his pawn and lightly smacked the boy’s shoulder while rolling his eyes. “First, I don’t think you’re a fool. Second, of course, I will help you. That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?” The blonde’s curls bobbed in time with his exuberant nod, and though Cullen beat him soundly in every game, Alistair couldn’t stop smiling.


	2. I So Swear

****Solace 29, 9:24 Dragon** **

“Recruits!” 

The teeming mass of teenage boys on the training field smartly lined up and quieted as Ser Miles, the head trainer, entered the pitch with hands clasped behind his back. 

“There will be no training for the next three days. We must prepare the monastery for All Soul’s Day and build the twin pyres in remembrance of our Lady Andraste outside the walls. The majority of the holiday will be spent holding vigil in the chapel as we pray for those at the Maker’s side. We must not forget that being a Templar is about more than wielding weapons and protecting mages. We are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just, and we uphold the tenets of our Holy Faith, first and foremost.”

Cullen could practically hear Alistair’s eye roll next to him, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. His friend was, at least, irreverent, and at most, downright blasphemous. But the younger boy understood his position and his mixed feelings regarding the Maker. In his shoes, he couldn’t say he would feel much different.

In the almost four months that Cullen had been at Bournshire, he and Alistair had grown quite close, to the eternal chagrin of all the residents. The harassment continued, but the bullies now knew Cullen would back him up. Of course, he was able to keep a cooler head and usually diffused situations with words, instead of riling up tempers with sarcasm, as was Alistair’s wont. Yet even that wasn’t always enough, and they learned the skinny blonde kid was wiry and strong after hours of intensive training, and not above plowing his fist into someone’s face defending his friend. 

They spent two weeks on kitchen duty scrubbing pots and pans after the last debacle, and in that time he realized why Margie was one of Alistair’s favorite people. First, she scolded them, as any mother would for using violence instead of reason. Once properly shamed, she scooped them into her arms and praised them for standing by each other, protecting and supporting against their foes. She stayed with them, late into the night, keeping them company and awake when they started to doze. And she replenished their depleted energy stores at the end of their chore with sandwiches and sticky buns. 

Ser Miles resumed his speech and Alistair shook his head to scatter the haze of boredom from his mind. “I need all the strongest recruits to meet me at the western gate. We are taking a cart to the village woodcutter who has already chopped down the trees we need, but we must bring them back here to assemble the pyres.”

Suppressing a yawn, Alistair nearly swallowed his own tongue to hear Ser Miles call his name. Sharing matching expressions of shock, the blonde merely shrugged and jerked his head toward the gate, indicating his friend should hurry or he’d find the knight yelling at him for different reasons. 

Alistair mumbled as he passed, “I have something to show you when I get back.”

Cullen watched him go forlornly. Since making his friendship with Alistair known, he hadn’t been able to make any others. Which honestly didn’t bother him, as none of them were worth associating with. It simply meant he was in for a long, boring day without him.

Heaving a sigh, Cullen headed into the monastery, shuffling on quiet feet to their room. Settling into a kneel on the floor, he decided with Alistair unable to interrupt, he could focus on his meditations. The Canticle of Threnodies was still a struggle for him. Bowing his head to pray, his melodious voice echoed in the silent chamber.

“There was no word  
For heaven or for earth, for sea or sky.  
All that existed was silence.  
Then the Voice of the Maker rang out,  
The first Word,  
And His Word became all that might be:  
Dream and idea, hope and fear,  
Endless possibilities.”

* * *

Alistair and Geoff hoisted one end of a thick log, while Alec and Craig lifted the other, and together, they carried it from the side of the woodcutter’s house to the cart and slid it on top of the tree trunks already lining the bed. Ser Miles shook hands with the woodcutter as Hugh and Darren tossed the final log next to theirs. The recruits took a moment to breathe deeply and wipe the sweat dripping into their eyes with the sleeves of their tunics. Ser Miles approached and nodded curtly in approval. 

“Let’s return to the abbey. I will release you will all from assisting for the remainder of the day, but make sure you rest tonight because I expect you in top form tomorrow to help assemble the pyres.” A chorus of “yes, ser,” responded in perfect cadence and his lips quirked in a faint smile. 

Smacking the horses’ rumps, the small group made slow progress up the road to the monastery. What would normally be an hour’s walk or half an hour with horses, dragged into almost three hours due to the weight of the logs and their constant shifting in the cart. It was either the displacement of the cargo or the resounding crack of the giant trees slamming into one another that would inevitably startle the animals. 

Alistair moved to the front of the procession and soothed the beasts as best as he could on the journey back. Blindfolds wouldn’t help in this situation or he’d have ripped his tunic gladly to fashion a pair for them. But he did what he could, alternating between both animals, stroking their muzzles and necks while speaking softly or humming in a warm baritone to keep them calm as they walked. Sometimes, they would halt and adamantly refuse to move, whinnying in terror, and he resorted to yanking their bridles while the others pushed the cart from behind to get them going again. 

Every time they panicked, he thought of Cullen during the last summer storm, trembling and whimpering with each whip-crack of thunder. Alistair eventually slipped into his bed and held him so they could both sleep. The next morning the blonde was mortified, explaining he grew up sharing a bed with his three siblings. While loud noises easily startled him, storms never bothered him until he was separated from them, which made perfect sense to the older youth. Alistair swore he wouldn’t tell another living soul and with all sincerity offered to join him if he ever needed comfort in the future. Cullen’s relieved smile and shy blush as he thanked him made his stomach flutter, for reasons he couldn’t explain.

By the time they arrived at the gates of the abbey, Alistair was physically exhausted and emotionally worn out, as well. The other recruits were smart enough to not deride him on the return trek in Ser Miles’ presence, but Alistair knew that there would be ramifications for his softness with the horses later. Heaving a mental sigh of frustration, he merely nodded when Ser Miles thanked him for his help with the animals and freed the boys from further tasks.

He wanted a nap, but he was covered in dirt and reeked of sweat and horse, so he swung towards the dormitories for fresh clothes before heading to the baths. Skirting around the other recruits, he dashed inside on his long legs, chuckling under his breath, aware they couldn’t keep up. Using his forward momentum, he skidded on the smooth flagstones through the door of their room with a laugh. The sound died instantly, his blood running cold as he fell on his knees beside Cullen, slumped in the middle of the floor.

“Cullen!” 

He picked him up to check for a pulse, breathing easier to feel the steady thrum of blood under his fingers, and shook him harder than intended in his distress. Patting the boy’s cheeks devolved into frantic slaps while he continuously called his name until the blonde finally groaned softly in his lap and Alistair felt saltwater burn his eyes.

“Alss'tir?” Squinting at him through slit lids, he moaned again and wrinkled his nose. “Why do you smell like a stable?”

Alistair chuffed a shaky laugh, trying to keep his words steady, and failing miserably. “Well, that’s what happens when your experience sleeping in the stables keeps the horses from bolting on the return journey.” 

Cullen’s eyes opened wider at that, his forehead crinkling to go along with his deep frown as he stared up at his friend, who was furiously blinking back tears. “Please tell me you’re joking. You didn’t really sleep in the stables of the castle, did you?” 

Alistair blushed violently, his hazel gaze boring holes into the floor, causing Cullen’s chest to tighten at the thought of a younger version of his friend curled up in the hay alongside the mounts. Slapping a hand over his face, Cullen mumbled, “If I ever meet them, I will have a few choice words, I swear by Andraste.”

Clearing his throat, Alistair murmured, “Enough about me. What happened to you? I walked in and found you lying on the floor. You wouldn’t respond until I… slapped you. Sorry about that, by the way.” 

The blonde rubbed his cheek. “That explains why my face tingles.” 

Alistair’s mouth fell open and he hurried to apologize until he noticed the smirk growing larger on Cullen’s lips. “Oh, ho! I’m rubbing off on you. Mr. Straight-Laced made a joke and at my expense! Taking my job as class clown of the abbey, I see, but what does that leave me with?” 

Cullen sat up gingerly and rolled his eyes in response to Alistair’s cocked eyebrow. “The ability to run at the mouth, like you are right now.” 

Swiveling to look his friend in the eye, a rare occurrence as the younger boy hadn’t yet hit a growth spurt to get close to his height while standing, he smiled and patted Alistair’s trembling hand. "Thanks for coming along when you did. I’m fine, truly. I skipped lunch and recited all of Threnodies. I must have passed out from hunger," he said with a dismissive shrug.   
  
Alistair nodded absently before reaching around him and wrenching open his dresser drawer to pull out a small wooden box. Plopping back into his kneel the older boy lifted the lid and thrust it at Cullen. Quirking an eyebrow, the blonde peeked inside and found a stash of jerky and an assortment of dried fruit and almonds. 

It was Alistair’s turn to shrug as he explained. “I like to keep snacks that won’t spoil. Margie keeps me stocked, so we can share. I’m sorry I hadn’t told you before. I honestly never thought about it, since you don’t normally snack… you know, because unlike me you aren’t a bottomless pit. But next time you want to meditate – eat first. Please.”

A large grin bloomed on the younger boy’s face at the gesture and the blush creeping up Alistair’s neck, as a similar heat stained his own fair cheeks. “Thank you, Alistair. I will.” 

Reaching inside, he snatched a good-sized portion and hummed in contentment, noting his friend’s soft smile from his periphery as the older boy placed the box down and eased out of his kneel somewhat stiffly with a groan. 

“I’m going to the baths, so I can stop smelling horse lather every time I move. Are you coming?” The auburn-haired boy hovered near the end of his bed, halfway between Cullen and the door, uncertain if he should leave him, in case he passed out again, but his friend waved him away.

“No, I think I’ll lay down for a while or write a letter to Mia that I’ve been saying I would for three weeks.”

Alistair snorted when he recalled the angry letter Cullen received three weeks past from his older sister, who berated him for neglecting to inform his family he arrived at the monastery safe and sound. A twinge of remorse shot through him at the realization he was partly to blame for the blonde’s lapse in judgment. Whenever Cullen wasn’t training or meditating, he was with Alistair, sufficiently occupying all of his waking hours and distracting him from the things that mattered. The younger boy had a family, and his antics selfishly robbed them of any time to stay in contact. 

Attempting to lighten his dour mood, Alistair leaned his shoulder against the wall and chuckled. “Just be sure to add a postscript from me. ‘My darling Mia, I have heard so much about you. How can such fair beauty and fiery passion be related to- ' ”

“Ugh! That’s quite enough of you using me to flirt with my sister.” Cullen stood with a laugh, shaking his head at Alistair’s teasing banter. “She’s four years older than me, you know.”

Tilting his head slightly, a habit he picked up from the younger boy, he replied. “Are you suggesting I should be turned off by older women? Most men would find that rather alluring.” 

Pausing at his own odd phrasing, he wondered idly where it had come from. The older boy hoped that Cullen hadn’t noticed, but of course, he bloody well had. The blonde drew his brows closer in concern, his lips already parting to speak, and it released a flurry of nervous energy in the tall warrior’s gut.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Alistair unfolded from the wall with a grin he hoped didn’t look as strange as it felt and glided smoothly out of the chamber to head for the baths. 

With his absence, the younger boy felt hollow and sank onto his bed with a heavy sigh. His heart skipped a couple of beats as sad hazel eyes flashed through his mind. He couldn’t explain what happened, but somehow, he believed Alistair’s strange reaction to be his fault and it made him nauseous. Needing a distraction, Cullen rifled through the dresser for his writing materials and carefully arranged them on the bed to pen a response to his aggravating sister.

The auburn-haired recruit dashed down the hall and into the bathing room. Breathing a sigh of relief to find it empty, Alistair disrobed and slipped into the hot water, hissing as it worked the tension from his aching muscles. If only the water could soothe his rattled nerves. 

What in Andraste’s name was that? _‘Most men?’_ Did that refer to Cullen or himself? And why in the blasted Void did it matter so much all of a sudden? 

He fled before Cullen could demand answers for his strange behavior. How could he possibly explain? He could barely comprehend it. Was it possible to be envious of Cullen’s loving family, knowing that as long as he had them, Alistair was superfluous? If the blonde were to leave tomorrow, he would have somewhere to call home. People to welcome him with open arms and as much as Alistair wanted that himself, he also didn’t want to share the only person who’d shown a modicum of interest in _him._

Maker, just thinking it made him sound desperate and whiny and damned selfish. Cullen wasn’t _his_ – he didn’t belong to anyone, and he had no right to be jealous of a bond that existed long before their budding friendship. Alistair was aware Cullen had a complicated relationship with his family since he was naturally reserved and from what he gathered from his friend, they were not so quiet. The younger boy confided that growing up with three siblings tested the limits of his patience daily, but that didn’t make them any less his flesh and blood.

Grumbling under his breath, he furiously scrubbed his skin and hair with soap in irritation and confusion. Shaking his head, he slid underneath the water in his sheltered corner and blew out a stream of frustrated bubbles. Rising for air, Alistair leaned back against the edge of the stone pool and willed his mind to calm. 

After five hours of walking and lugging eight-foot-tall logs, a bone-weary exhaustion slowly settled around him. Unwilling to fall asleep in the water and possibly drown, he climbed out with less finesse than usual and snagged a clean towel to dry off. Automatically, he reached for a clean change of clothes and realized he didn’t have any.

_Maker’s fucking breath!_

Of course, he bolted so quickly that he forgot to grab a fresh outfit. Damn. There was nothing for it – he’d have to head back in a towel then and pray he didn’t run into anyone he’d rather avoid. Peeking around the door, he cataloged the empty corridor and fled the chamber, mindful of the slick flagstones under his pruned feet as he ran through the hall. He made it to the room by miracle without incident. 

Breathing heavily from the exertion, he slowed his panting to soft inhales when he noticed Cullen fast asleep, swimming in parchment with dark smudges on his fingers and in his light hair. Closing the door as silently as possible, he crept to the dresser and pulled out a tunic and cloth breeches to dress. Using the driest end of the towel, he roughly raked it along his hair with one hand while gently picking up the discarded drafts of Cullen’s letter with the other. He stacked them neatly on top of the dresser alongside his charcoal sticks with a bemused grin.

A snippet from the top draft caught his eye and he couldn’t help reading it. " _…there is a boy here, Alistair. We are roommates and he has fast become my best friend. I’ve never had a friend before – only you and Branson and Rosalie. I hope to be as good a friend to him as he is to me since we are not related and he has no reason to be kind to me, other than he chooses to be."_

Tears welled in his eyes and he glanced over at the blonde who decided the first day they met to become his friend and never looked back or regretted that decision. Affection and gratitude washed over him, and he realized then that his concerns and jealous fears were unfounded. If Cullen didn’t want to spend so much time with him, he wouldn’t. Simple as that. 

Determined to be a Templar, because he believed it was noble and good, pouring all of his heart into training with a single-mindedness that he respected. A shy merchant’s son with a dry wit and sharp intellect _. His friend_. The only person who ever thought he was worth spending time with, who laughed at his jokes and followed them up with his own. His lips curved into a small smile and on impulse, he laid down beside his friend, back to back, and fell asleep within moments.

* * *

The clang of the dinner bell rang through the monastery, slowly pulling them from the depths of the Fade. Cullen woke first and froze at the discovery that he was wrapped around Alistair like a vine. He tried to process his hazy memories before he fell asleep because he was sure when he passed out that he’d been alone. 

He smelled the lingering scent of soap in Alistair’s hair, realizing the other boy must have joined him after his bath. Why he did, he couldn’t say, though he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t enjoyable after sharing his sleeping space for thirteen years. Although, he never found his leg tucked between his siblings’ or his arm draped snugly across their chest and certainly never in combination.

The younger boy knew the moment Alistair woke up because he stiffened like a board in Cullen’s intimate embrace. Turning his head, the older boy met his sleep-blurred gaze, an unspoken question dancing in his burnished depths. Cullen could only answer with a timid smile and a whispered apology as he extricated himself from Alistair’s broad frame. 

“I, uh, sorry –“

“I didn’t – “

Stopping, the boys sniggered together with cheeks pink and bright smiles, breaking the tension. Alistair reined himself in first, his rich voice filling the close space between them. 

“Sorry for jumping into bed with you.” Cullen snorted at Alistair’s teasing wink. “You… uh, were asleep when I got back and I don’t know… I didn’t want to sleep alone. I hope you don’t mind.”

Cullen shook his head with a chuckle. “Actually, no, I really don’t. It’s nice not waking up alone. I am sorry for… _clinging_ to you like a weed.”

Alistair’s eyes twinkled with mirth and his shoulders shook with repressed laughter. “Well, as long as you aren’t rashvine, I think I’ll live. Imagine having to explain that to the Revered Mother!” 

All it took was a shared glance between them before their composure shattered, their chortling echoing in the small chamber, and drowning out the incessant peal of the bell. 

Wiping tears from their eyes, they rolled out of the bed to hastily pull on socks and boots as hunger made itself known to both of them. Alistair paused with his hand on the door handle, shifting his weight back and forth on anxious feet, the electric buzz of their earlier giddiness wearing off, leaving him agitated. 

“Hey, um… remember earlier I mentioned I wanted to show you something?” Cullen nodded, amusement still lighting his fair features, and Alistair’s stomach fluttered ever so slightly. “If… if I show you, you swear not to tell anyone?”

The younger boy smiled, honest and guileless as he clapped him on the shoulder. “Of course, I swear. You can trust me with anything, Alistair.” 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Alistair nodded and shot him a grateful smile that grew into a second round of laughter when his eyes traveled upward. Cullen’s grin never wavered as his best friend snatched his discarded towel and passed it to him.

“Ch-charcoal… your hair!” 

The older boy ran a hand across the top of his head to indicate where the pigment was concentrated. The blonde sniggered as he scrubbed the towel furiously along his curls. He recalled passing his smudged fingers through them a few times while drafting his letter. Once no more black streaks stained the white cloth, he tossed it carelessly aside and Alistair nodded to confirm it had removed the charcoal. 

Yanking open the door, the two sped through the monastery to the dining hall, slinking into a rear bench moments before the Revered Mother prayed over their meal and signaled the kitchen maids to pass around plates of food. They tucked eagerly into their chicken drizzled with almond gravy alongside a bed of vegetables tossed in pepper and cinnamon. A hunk of rye bread was perched on top for sopping up the juices. 

If there was one upside to living in the abbey, it was the food. Villagers routinely provided the Sisters with offerings of grain and salted meat in obeisance. As abbeys were responsible for training the next generation of holy warriors, the Chantry hierarchy made sure local monasteries were well supplied with vegetable gardens, fish ponds, and goats for cheese and milk. As well as guaranteeing there was plenty of money in the coffers to afford spices and specialty ingredients.

They didn’t always get dessert, but it had been a physically exhausting day for most of them, so small bowls were dispensed once they cleared the plates. Alistair’s mouth watered when he received his dish to find poached pears smothered in a simple syrup of wine and mulberries sweetened with honey. Cullen wasted no time digging in and he took his cue from his friend, humming in contentment with each bite.

With dinner concluded, the Revered Mother released them from evening vigil since the recruits would have a long day tomorrow setting up the pyres, which would be lit in an elaborate remembrance ceremony for the villagers in two days. Reminding them of their midnight curfew, she excused them to enjoy their free evening. They stood as one when she rose from the head table, bowed slightly in deference as she passed, and scattered to the four winds after her departure.

Alistair leaned over and whispered, “Grab the chess board and meet me in our room. We have to wait for things to calm down before I can show you.” 

Nodding curtly, Cullen headed for the library and snatched the game board. He didn’t even bother to ask if anyone wanted to use it. He long discovered he was the only one who played - well, and Alistair now, too. He avoided attracting attention, weaving gracefully through the throng of boys crowding the various rooms and corridors as he traveled to the dorms.

He found the auburn youth sprawled on his stomach across his bed, propped comfortably on his elbows – his usual chess position. Cullen chuckled as he situated himself across from his friend and crossed his legs while setting up the board for a round. They didn’t speak, which Cullen immediately noted as odd, and shot the other boy surreptitious glances throughout their game, but Alistair never took his eyes off the pieces. His stomach clenched with anxiety. What could render his jovial friend silent and brooding? 

Neither of their hearts were in the game. Moving pawns by rote, tension mounted in the unnerving silence; each keeping one ear focused on the noise level, waiting for it to quiet enough so they could sneak away for whatever Alistair wanted to show him. Halfway through their second round, his bronze hand paused over the board, eyes jerking up to meet Cullen’s gaze. Lifting a finger to his lips, he pushed gently off the bed and grabbed their bedside candle. Cullen followed on his heels and slipped out the door behind his friend.

Taking the side passages Alistair preferred, the boys headed towards the main entrance. Confusion welled within the younger boy as they neared the large vestibule where the Revered Mother received guests and pilgrims, unsure what could be interesting in this section of the abbey. If they were to follow the hallway to the other side of the building, they would find the priests' quarters and the Mother’s office. Maker, he really hoped no one would find them here – they would assume the worst about the boy’s intentions.

Alistair paused uncertainly in the mouth of the shadowed passage. He could see the vestibule, modestly decorated with maroon hall runners and banners emblazoned with the Chantry’s sun symbol and the flaming sword of the Templar Order. The candle guttered slightly as a draft seeped through the cracks of the massive doors, and he briefly debated the wisdom of his plan. But he was here, and he wasn’t about to back out now. 

Squaring his shoulders, he waved Cullen to follow him, glancing around furtively as they stepped into the entryway. In between the two largest banners facing the doors was a large painting hung with pride. After pilgrims kissed the Revered Mother’s hand, or sometimes her feet, they would grovel towards the portrait, and kiss the ornate frame with equal reverence. Fereldens loved their King, Maric “the Savior,” as much or more than they loved the Maker. 

If only he could say the same. Instead, the older boy’s stomach soured as he drank in the piercing gaze immortalized on canvas. 

Pointing at the portrait, lit up by the candles on the small table underneath the frame, he whispered to Cullen. 

“Does he look familiar to you?” 

Alistair tilted his head as though appraising it anew to hide the way his eyes longingly roved the portrait. Automatically tracing every minute line of the man’s face and the slight curve of his lips visible through his full beard. He wondered idly if he would age in a similar fashion.

Cullen tossed Alistair a confused frown but turned his attention to the portrait of their king. Most important buildings in the larger townships had such portraits, but he’d never laid eyes on a rendering of their monarch until he arrived at the monastery. Honnleath’s chantry was small, quaint, rustic. They had not been gifted such a treasure, and he remembered the awe-inspiring wonder he felt when he beheld the visage of the man who saved them from Orlais’ conquering hold twenty-two years ago. 

The same bubble of elation rose within his breast again as he stared at the handsome man. Proud, distinguished, maybe a little cocky, but deservedly so, for what he’d accomplished for the Kingdom. This was a man who understood the weight of power. A man of action, of _war,_ who was by no means idle in the capital, advocating for all the people of Ferelden – elves, as well as humans. Cullen knew his father held the King in high esteem for his efforts and therefore, so did he. 

Yet he couldn’t understand what Alistair wanted to show him, or if the portrait was even the end goal. Shrugging in perplexity, Cullen shook his head. 

“No, he doesn’t look familiar. Should he?” 

Alistair closed his eyes as he blew out an unsteady breath and walked towards the painting. Turning to face Cullen, he stood next to the portrayal of their king and raised the candle to highlight his features. Staring directly at his friend, he murmured softly, “ _Now_ , does he look familiar?”

Cullen’s eyes widened and flicked between the two faces. Mentally erasing the King’s beard and shortening his hair, he saw what Alistair revealed. The same square jawline, aquiline nose, even the quirk of Maric’s lips in the painting was a trait frequently mirrored on his friend. The only differences were their coloring, which had been enough to throw him off. Maric was fair with blond hair and blue eyes, while Alistair's complexion was golden with hazel eyes and a liberal smattering of auburn in his sandy locks.

Alistair lowered the candle wearily as Cullen backed into the nearest wall, shock and comprehension dawning on his chiseled features. Cullen opened his mouth to speak, but Alistair mimed slashing his hand across his throat and pointedly checked the corridor. The blonde clamped his mouth shut as the older boy snuffed the candle stub, leaving it on the table, and jerked his head towards the hallway. 

Halfway through, Alistair checked that they were alone and opened a small door on their right that deposited them in the courtyard. On silent feet they ran through the shadows, easing open a side gate that spit them outside the monastery walls. They ran to their copse of trees, a place they could escape from bullies, or relax in peace after a long day of training or vigils. 

Leaning against the largest tree, the boys sank to the ground and tried to catch their breath. After several long moments of silence, Cullen scrutinized the profile of his friend as Alistair worried his bottom lip between his teeth. 

It amazed him that he never noticed the similarities since arriving at the monastery. The older boy's noble bearing was obvious, his features so perfect a master artisan could have sculpted them. It was no longer a question of why the other boys, especially those from high-born families, tormented him. 

Swallowing hard, the blonde murmured, “So… you’re the King’s son.” 

Alistair turned to meet his gaze and Cullen saw the pain swimming alongside tears in his hazel eyes. “No. I’m the King’s _bastard._ There’s a difference. His _son_ is Cailin. I am a threat to the line of succession.” 

Roughly, he shoved his palms against his eyes to stem the tears trickling rapidly down his face. Scooting closer, Cullen leaned intentionally against him in a silent show of solidarity, which forced a raw sob from the other boy’s lips. The younger boy’s chest constricted oddly at the sound, and on impulse, he tossed his arm around the other boy’s shoulders in a comforting hug. 

Alistair’s composure snapped then, and he leaned all his weight against him as he wept for the lost chance to know a father’s love, to have a connection with his half-brother, to belong in the world and not be cast aside by everyone who knew him. He was a dirty little secret and had to be hidden away. Lost among the rank and file of the Templars to preserve the monarchy. He wondered if Maric even knew where he was. If he cared. 

Next to him, Cullen stewed with equal parts rage and guilt. He was angry for his friend and the circumstances that led to his being sent to the Order. Sleeping with the horses and in the kennels, when he should have been inside Arl Eamon’s castle walls. Treated like refuse and discarded without so much as a by-your-leave by his guardian. Never knowing his family, while Cullen bemoaned the minor annoyances of his siblings, which seemed so stupid and selfish now. 

Until he came along Alistair had literally no one. Ever. Even though the blonde did not have friends growing up, he had siblings who would stand for him, if the need ever arose. The second son of the most powerful man in Ferelden didn't even have that.

Hiccuping against his shoulder, Alistair murmured, “I’m sorry. It shouldn’t matter…” He sucked in a ragged gasp. _"I_ don’t matter to… them. But it does. I’m sure that sounds idiotic –”

“No. It doesn’t.” Cullen interrupted more forcefully than he intended, and he banged his curly head against the tree in irritation. “I’m the one that’s sorry. I’ve done nothing, but whine about my family, meanwhile –”

Alistair huffed and sat up to glare at him. “Stop it. You have a family, as most people do, Cullen. I don’t begrudge you that. I _like_ hearing about them. Even if you’re venting about how overbearing Mia is or how Branson tagged in your shadow and drove you crazy when you were younger.” 

Cullen’s lips twitched, amazed his friend recalled such insignificant details about them, yet pleased they mattered to him, for reasons he couldn’t identify. He lightly bumped the older boy's shoulder in embarrassed acceptance of his friend’s kindness, and Alistair smiled as he settled beside him.

Flicking a small pebble across the ground, Cullen bit his lip, glancing at him from the corner of his eye, and gently cleared his throat. “So, why tell me now? Why tell me at all? You could have kept this a secret forever. I never put two and two together until you pointed it out.”

Sighing, he fiddled with a patch of grass, admiring the cool touch of the blades against his warm, calloused fingers. “You needed to know. There have been… rumors. Some of the noble born have noticed the similarities. A few of the recruits even met Maric when they attended the summons for a Landsmeet alongside their parents. The Revered Mother has done all she can, but she warned me her ability to maintain my secret is wearing thin.” 

Alistair's usually bright gaze was dim when he met his eyes. “I didn’t want you, my best friend, to be the last to know.”

A sudden bout of clarity burst within him, and Cullen faced his friend with a grin. Raising his arm between them, the younger boy nodded for him to do the same, and Alistair hesitated for only a moment, before clasping their hands together with a bemused expression. Sitting up straight, the blonde held his gaze earnestly and a jolt of electricity ran through the older boy as he realized what his friend intended.

“I am your friend, Alistair. That is a stronger bond than a brother because I _choose_ you. I don’t get to choose my family, but I _can_ choose who _becomes_ family. I so swear to always guard your back and stand with you – on the field and off.”

Alistair’s grip tightened almost painfully, and he breathed sharply out his nose to stem a fresh wave of tears before replying steadily. 

“I choose you, Cullen. You’re the only person who’s ever chosen me for anything, and I do not take that for granted. I will always guard your back and stand with you – on the field and off, I so swear.” 

Grinning broadly at one another, they helped each other rise, keeping their hands clasped at chest level for a few extra heartbeats before unfurling their grip. Creeping back into the monastery, the young warriors occasionally bumped shoulders in the narrow side hallways as they headed for the dormitories. They tried to keep the noise of their return to a minimum since it was dangerously close to curfew.

Stealing into their room, Cullen quietly shut the door and began questing in the dark to his bed. Without a candle and the moonlight shining in the wrong direction, the chamber was pitch black, and he didn’t relish stubbing his toe. 

Alistair’s voice whispered in the dark. “You – you could share with me tonight. I’ll get a new candle tomorrow, but –” He trailed off nervously, his tunic rustling in the silence as he shrugged, unsure why the words made him anxious.

Cullen meant what he said earlier; he didn’t mind sharing a bed with his friend, but it felt different in the dark. Yet, after the night of bombshell revelations and oaths sworn under the stars, he was feeling a little edgy, if he was honest. And if Alistair was offering, he knew that meant the older boy was, too. Besides, he was always happiest when his friend was close by. 

Smiling despite the other boy’s inability to see it, Cullen answered, “Yes, I’d like that.” 

Alistair reached out, aiming for where Cullen’s voice sounded, and latched onto his hand, pulling him carefully towards the bed frame. Cullen’s shins bumped the wood and they laughed quietly. Letting go of him, Alistair yanked off his tunic and toed off his boots so he could slip under the thin sheets. Cullen did the same and followed him into the bed. 

Once stretched on their sides to accommodate their broad forms in the small bed, Alistair spoke softly, “Thanks for not… judging me earlier.”

The blonde’s curls fluttered across the pillow as he moved his head closer to him. “Why would I judge you?”

Shifting uncomfortably, the other boy whispered, “You know… for crying. For being emotional. It’s weak and not fitting for a warrior.”

Cullen sought his hand under the sheets and squeezed lightly. “It’s not weak. Everyone cries, even if they don’t admit it. My father once told Branson and I that true men aren’t afraid to show emotion because it makes us human. The day we no longer acknowledge our feelings is the day we lose our humanity.”

Alistair’s stomach flip-flopped, momentarily rendered mute as he mulled over Cullen’s words and the sincerity behind them. It was obvious the boy meant them, but that wasn’t surprising. In the short time, he’d come to know him, Cullen had been nothing but honest. 

Squeezing back, the other boy choked, “A wise man, your father. I must be the most supremely human one here, then.” 

Elbowing him in gentle admonishment for his self-deprecating humor, Cullen replied, “That’s not a bad thing, Alistair.” 

Alistair snorted, grateful his blush at the praise was hidden in the dark. “No, perhaps it isn’t.” 

Neither spoke for a while, as exhaustion settled around them. Eyelids drooping over sand-filled eyes, the auburn-haired boy squeezed the hand still tucked in his and whispered, “Good night, Cullen.”

The younger boy squeezed faintly, one foot already in the Fade when he mumbled, “G’night, Alis’air.”

Smirking in the dark at the tired lisp of his friend, he thanked the Maker as he closed his heavy lids that at least there was someone in his life who wanted him. Someone he could be himself with and not fear judgment or ridicule or abandonment as people in his life conditioned him to expect. Alistair prayed that wouldn’t change in the future. 


	3. Secret

**Harvestmere 14, 9:24 Dragon**

Alistair sank onto the chair, his head hitting the table with a _thunk_ causing Cullen to laugh boisterously beside him. 

“Shut up, you ass,” hissed the older boy, but that only made the blonde snicker harder. With a shove, Alistair sent his friend tumbling off his seat in a heap of uncontrolled mirth on the library floor. The other recruits scattered around the large chamber rolled their eyes at the boys’ antics.

Wheezing in between his chortling, Cullen spoke, “I-I told y-you not to! It’s your o-own damn fault.”

From the depths of the wood the other boy grumbled, “I know. I meant to hit Hugh, not Ser Rolf.”

Clambering back onto his chair, the blonde clapped him good-naturedly on the back. “I’m sorry, Alistair. Those in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones... or mud pies, in this case.” Alistair groaned softly. “How long did they give you in the kitchens this time?”

“Three weeks.”

Cullen winced between his hiccups. Leaning close, he whispered conspiratorially, “I’ll help, you know.”

Alistair peeked at him over his arm, a small smile half hidden behind his bulk, and murmured. “I know, but it’s not your punishment.”

His friend shrugged with a grin, amber gaze bright and sincere. “I don’t mind. If Margie won’t let me help, then at the very least I can keep you company.” Cullen squeezed his shoulder, solidifying their agreement before returning to his studies on military tactics.

The older boy shivered at the scalding heat left in the wake of the innocent touch and was grateful his face was tucked in his arms to hide his blush and ragged breathing. He watched the blonde from the corner of his eye, wondering, not for the first time, how it was possible for someone to be so attractive. It wasn’t just his good looks, which were quickly transitioning from boy to man, but his personality, too. Cullen was kind, smart, witty, and found _him_ , the resident outcast, worthwhile enough to call ‘friend.’

Ever since that night two-and-a-half months ago, his feelings towards the blonde had subtly shifted. Alistair struggled not to let on and ruin this good thing with complicated emotions. An idle crush caused by proximity; it would fade. At least, that’s what he told himself. Until then, he just had to ignore it and hope that the younger boy never noticed, because he didn’t think he could explain without destroying their friendship.

Sparing a peek around the room, Alistair noted a few astute glances from the other boys and swallowed hard. Apparently he wasn’t as successful at hiding his feelings as he assumed. He knew there were couples scattered among them. Alistair heard the rumors of boys experimenting in dark corners and dorms, but unlike them it wasn’t purely a physical release he sought with Cullen.

 _That_ was the key difference. He wanted more than just fumbling in the dark and to his knowledge none of the other boys in the abbey were stupid enough to involve feelings when they were getting each other off at night.

The older boy’s prolonged silence caught Cullen’s attention, and he turned to his friend with concern. Ducking his head closer to the table, he studied the auburn-haired warrior intently. 

“Alistair, are you all right?” 

The taller boy’s features flamed as he nodded vigorously, but he didn’t speak. Heedless of the other recruits present in the room, the blonde pushed aside his book and laid his head on the table in imitation of his friend to bring their faces close together.

“Do you want to talk about it? Is it about Hugh?” he asked quietly.

Affection bloomed in Alistair’s chest at the younger boy’s tenderness and show of solidarity in front of witnesses. _Maker’s breath,_ Cullen made it impossible to pretend that what he felt for his friend could ever go away.

Clearing his throat with difficulty, the older boy rasped, “No. It’s not about Hugh… I guess I’m just feeling a little… inadequate.” 

It wasn’t a complete lie. He felt like an impostor regarding the life thrust upon him, which was part of why he was such a thorn in everyone’s side. But the blonde didn’t need to know the main issue gnawing on him was his one-sided attraction to his friend. The younger boy wouldn’t thank him if he knew.

Cullen’s stomach knotted at Alistair’s confession. He knew the auburn-haired boy didn’t want the life of a Templar. Sometimes he felt guilty that he _did_ and came to the monastery of his own volition. It was a sore spot between them and a topic of conversation they desperately avoided.

Lifting his head, Alistair forced a smile and stood abruptly, nearly sending the chair to the ground when his long legs snagged it. “I’m fine, really. I just need some air. Don’t forget we have vigil in an hour.” 

Darting out the door, he left the startled blonde alone at the table. Sitting up, the younger boy raked a hand roughly through his curls with a snarl. 

“Andraste, give me strength in the face of such pig-headedness! I swear… idiot –” 

Cullen ceased ranting when he noted the myriad expressions on the boys in the room, ranging from amused to irritated. Even Ser Tabor who was making his rounds and likely witnessed the entire scene seemed to be smothering laughter. Coughing with embarrassment, he hopped up and beat a hasty retreat, thankful that by the time those in the chamber began tittering in their wake he was too far away to hear the conversation.

Returning to their room, since he knew Alistair wouldn’t go there, he sprawled on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Unconsciously, his palm rested over his heart when he recalled the pang of sadness that washed over him in the face of his friend’s pain. 

There was nothing ‘inadequate’ about the older boy. He wished he could articulate how he held his friend in such high esteem. Even amid bullying and neglect, hiding his hurt under a veneer of humor, Alistair never lost his kind heart. His soul was pure, desperate for a real connection, and when he gave himself he gave his entire being.

While he contemplated the respect he held for the other warrior a ripple of pleasant warmth coursed gently through him. It made him wonder if all friendships were this profound. Cullen had briefly considered asking Mia in a letter that very question, but then deemed it too personal. Instead, he kept the information in his missives home straightforward, focusing on the monotony of life in the abbey. 

Of course, that didn’t stop her from asking for more about his friend since mentioning him in his first letter home. In fact, in the letter he received a few days ago, she brought him up again. _“Regale me with more on your friend, Alistair. The tone in your letters changes when you speak of him. I am glad that you have found a kindred spirit, little brother. I just hope you are both keeping out of trouble.”_

He snorted softly. Oh yes, dear sister, nothing to see here. We are always, indeed, well-behaved. His lips curled into a soft smile as contentment filled him when he reflected on her words. 

Yes, they were kindred spirits of a sort. At times, opposite personalities, at others two mischievous boys with a penchant for puns and dry humor. Their friendship was comfortable, easy, _freeing_. Alistair never made him feel like a naïve country boy, always telling him there was more to him than met the eye, to believe in himself. 

The encouragement was paying off. Cullen had grown stronger and more confident in his capabilities during their private practice sessions. The newest recruit was now on par with the others in the sparring ring and he smiled wider in gratitude to his ever patient friend.

But then there were the moments that Cullen couldn’t quite decipher. The ones where Alistair’s hair flared vibrant red in the sun during training and the blonde’s footwork faltered. Or the rasp of the older boy’s calloused palm against his back as they laughed themselves to tears that caused his chest to constrict oddly. He tried not to let on how much he enjoyed the quiet of the evenings when they played chess or hung upside down on their beds, tossing a wadded piece of paper between them while they chatted about their day.

Yet, whenever Alistair retreated within himself and refused to open up about what was bothering him, Cullen felt slighted. He knew that his friend was entitled to the privacy of his own thoughts - he wasn’t obligated to share everything with him. And the younger boy tried to respect his space, but it rankled because he _wanted_ to be there to support Alistair in whatever struggles he faced. 

A crush of footsteps sounded in the hall and with a sigh, Cullen rolled off his bed to join the flood of recruits heading to the chapel for vigil. His eyes darted around the chamber upon his arrival, but he didn’t see Alistair. Wandering to a candle, the blonde lit the wick and bowed his head as he sank gracefully to his knees. 

Forcefully shoving aside his worry about his absent friend, he focused on his meditation. A boy once told him that Templars required a disciplined mind to use their talents and he would be worthy of the Order. Being a Templar was all he’d ever wanted and he would be the best that he could be. 

Relaxing into his kneel, Cullen’s lips naturally formed the words that filled his mind. The Chant rang melodic and pure, even in his hushed tone, and he allowed the surety of his faith to wash over him.

_“These truths the Maker has revealed to me,_

_As there is but one world,_

_One life, one death, there is_

_But one god, and He is our Maker.”_

Alistair observed from his hidden corner across the room through hooded lids as his friend poured his soul into his prayer. Faith and religion did little for him, personally, but he knew that his roommate was a devout Andrastian. Cullen _believed_ the words. He lived and breathed them: the epitome of religious devotion that made him well suited to the life of a Templar.

Yet, unlike some of their fellows, and in direct contradiction to Chantry edict, Cullen did not believe that mages were inherently evil. He sympathized with those born with magic and truly wished to protect them. Not guard them as jailers or brand them all criminals for a gift granted to them by the Maker. Because he believed in his heart that “magic exists to serve man” and “that all men are the work of our Maker’s hands.” In his mind, the two ideas were not mutually exclusive - they were core tenets of his faith. 

_All_ men - mages, elves, peasants, kings. Cullen stood for everyone, as did Alistair. It was refreshing to find a person who shared his beliefs. Was it really such a radical idea that everyone was worth loving and protecting? 

The boys spent many evenings discussing in secretive murmurs how they felt the Circles were a cruel system. Locking people away did nothing to foster understanding, which Alistair knew well from personal experience. However, they recognized that the deep-rooted fear of magic among the normal folk would never allow for mages to live free. The Circles were intended to be a haven for mages - a way to protect magic wielders from those who sought to harm them and allow them to hone their magic. An imperfect, but necessary system, at least with the current world state. 

Although, the road to the Void was paved with good intentions. Or so the saying went. They might be young, but they weren’t uninformed. Establishing the Circles in the Chantry’s infancy offered protection and security, but over time it became a means of control. The older recruits, who had attended Harrowings or spent weeks observing at the Circle as part of their training, whispered of harsh treatment against mages which wove through the grapevine to the younger boys. Things so unspeakable that Alistair couldn’t voice them without wanting to be sick.

But Cullen, his dear friend and the one bright light in his dreary life, reminded him that no mention of Circles existed in the Chant. 

“The things done to the mages, past and present, are the work of men. Cruel, evil men, Alistair. Their actions are not condoned by the Maker or Andraste. It’s part of why I _want_ to serve. I want to be a _good_ Templar and prove that we needn’t abuse the mages for something outside of their control. We all belong to the Maker and we should all be allowed to live without fear.”

If anyone else had said that to him, Alistair would have laughed them into the next Age for their idealism, but when Cullen said it, the words rang with such sincerity that the older boy couldn’t help nodding in stunned wonder. If anyone could inspire revolutionary change, it would be him. The blonde’s single-mindedness rivaled that of a mabari with a bone. 

Refocusing his attention he watched Cullen pray. 

Golden curls wreathed his head like a halo in the candlelight, lips beseeching the Maker to hear his plea, his features serene and beautiful as his faith imbued the Chant with a life Alistair had never felt when he paid lip service. 

Closing his eyes in resignation, Alistair surrendered to the sharp squeeze of his heart and the falter in his lungs. It wasn’t possible to fight his feelings for the boy with the righteous soul and bright smile. It was a lie to even pretend that was possible, at this stage. 

He’d had crushes enough in the past, on the kitchen maids or his onetime friend, Bella, in Redcliffe - but none of them were like this. None of those girls made him feel weightless simply standing next to them. And while he used to daydream of holding those girls’ hands, he doubted that any of them could match Cullen’s exuberant one-armed hugs after a good training session. With his tunic clinging to his musky sweat covered skin and a healthy flush on his cheeks as he pulled the taller boy close with a rowdy crow of excitement. Those hugs suffused him with warmth and left flutters in his stomach long after their shared laughter faded. 

He’d never had feelings like this for _anyone_ before and never for another boy, but that wasn’t what was holding him back. Cullen was his only friend; the only person he could rely on and he didn’t want to lose him. He would have to figure out how to keep his emotions under control or he risked everything. The thought of being rejected and alone terrified him. Alistair would take platonic friendship over romantic attraction, if it meant he kept Cullen in his life. 

Yet as he snuck another peek at the blonde vision across the chamber, he knew that would be easier said than done. Maker’s breath, he wanted to kiss those penitent lips. He wanted to know what his name sounded like in that breathless whisper, full of wonder and devotion.

It was a blessing he was already kneeling or his legs would have given out and sent him crashing to the ground. As it was, Alistair swayed forward and caught himself with his palms on the cool stone, but the small cry that spilled from his mouth halted all sound in the chapel. 

A knight came over to check on him, concern etched on his face by his unusual outburst. “Alistair, are you all right? Are you ill or dizzy, perhaps?”

“I’m fine, Ser. Just… dehydrated,” he murmured in embarrassment, willing his heart to slow as everyone’s gazes bored into him. 

Ser Erlic’s brow remained furrowed when he nodded. “Are you able to continue your vigil or should I release you for the eve? It won’t do for you to pass out, lad.”

Alistair’s skin flamed and he shook his head insistently. “No, Ser, thank you. I’ll be fine to continue.”

Patting him kindly on the shoulder, the knight wandered away, leaving him alone with his mortification. With a grimace, the auburn-haired boy screwed his eyes shut, clasping his hands in front of him in the familiar pose, his mouth moving in soft murmurs. But it wasn’t the Chant he whispered in the quiet rumblings of his fellow’s vigils - it was a fervent plea that he could maintain his secret and his friendship.

After a few moments, when it seemed safe to check, Alistair cracked his lids and glanced at Cullen. Electricity coursed through his veins to find piercing amber openly, _brazenly_ , staring at him across the room. A tender smile bloomed on the blonde’s face as the two held each other’s gaze and Alistair couldn’t help returning it. He shot the younger boy a quick thumbs up to indicate he was okay and his friend’s stiff posture relaxed instantly. Nodding in relief, Cullen returned to his meditation, unaware he left the older boy reeling from their wordless encounter.

There had been... _something_ beyond worry in his best friend’s eyes. The tense set of his shoulders and jaw revealed the depth of the blonde’s apprehension. But it had been such a brief interaction and Alistair warned himself not to read into it. Friendly concern, that’s all it was. Cullen was simply being solicitous. It didn’t mean anything. 

Surreptitiously the auburn-haired boy wiped his sweaty hands along his breeches and willed the flush that ran all the way to his toes to fade.

For once, Alistair willingly focused on the hours-long vigil in a concerted effort to distract his mind. By the time the chime sounded announcing the end of their meditation, the young warrior was calmer and more relaxed than he’d been all day. If this was how Cullen felt after praying, it was no wonder his friend was so faithful with his devotionals.

Alistair was one of the first out of the chapel, still unsure how he would explain his odd behavior to his friend and needing more time to be alone. Once in the hallway he allowed his feet to carry him to his favorite place. 

Rising from his kneel with a quiet huff, Cullen extended his arms over his head and stretched out his back. His first few steps were wobbly, but by the time he crossed the chamber to the door the ache in his knees had lessened. Glancing around he noticed that Alistair was already gone. Again. Determined to give him the time he needed, even though every bone in his body screamed to track him down and demand answers, Cullen decided to head to the kitchen and visit Margie. Maybe she could take his mind off things with a sticky bun. 

With a soft chuckle, the blonde slipped into the side passages and snuck towards the warmth of the boys’ favorite haunt. As he neared the kitchen, a familiar voice slowed his steps.

“...with the holiday?” Alistair queried. 

Margie’s answering laughter poured out of the entryway. “One of the village girls? Or the maids?” she asked in reply. 

A chorus of excited young ladies trilled in the room coinciding with his boom of laughter - a perfect harmony of rich tones and bright notes. 

“How could I resist such feminine wiles?” Alistair flirted.

“You can’t, Alistair!” called a maid. “Now, which one of us will you be kissing come Satinalia?”

A blush stained Cullen’s cheeks as he thought about Alistair’s lips locked against a willing recipient. The warmth turned to a dull void in his gut as his friend chuckled and teased. “Do I have to pick just one? I can’t kiss each of you?”

A smack of fabric and an indignant ‘ouch’ drew the younger boy’s mouth into a smirk and he choked back a snort of laughter. 

“You know you can’t do that, young man! It’s unkind to bandy your affections so freely. Some of these girls are half in love with you as it is. Don’t make it worse,” chided the cook. 

A stool scraped along the flagstones, and the blonde heard the rustle of Margie’s skirt as she took a seat. Cullen tried to ignore the niggling voice that taunted him about the other boy’s female admirers. Maker, now he felt inadequate.

Chagrined, Alistair mumbled, “I’d never actually do that. I’m too scared of my own shadow to even -” The older boy sighed heavily. 

The maids giggled and a different girl bravely spoke up. “Well, if not you, what about your handsome blonde friend? Would he kiss any of us when the recruits join us for the celebration in a couple of weeks?”

“C-Cullen?” The warrior’s voice sounded oddly strained. “Ah… I-I’m not suuuure? I mean, he probably wouldn’t be against it.” His mirthless chuckle tied the other boy’s stomach into knots. “He’s not as daft as I am to turn down an opportunity.”

One of the earlier maids questioned. “He doesn’t have his eye on anyone special, then?” 

Alistair either shook his head or shrugged in response because the girls tittered animatedly. The younger boy tried to control his furious blush, wishing the Maker would open up the ground and swallow him. In the span of a few moments he went from feeling jealous of his friend’s charisma to wishing he could redirect the spotlight back to the older warrior. Margie interrupted with a harsh word and clapped her hands, silencing their enthusiastic plans for catching Cullen’s eye in the village. 

The auburn-haired boy sighed and redirected his conversation to Margie. “It doesn’t matter. It will never happen anyway. We both know my propensity for happiness is piss poor, at best.”

Cullen frowned, unsure what they were talking about since he missed the beginning of the conversation. Yet, he hated hearing his friend’s low opinion of himself.

“With that attitude, certainly,” the woman remarked sharply. In his mind’s eye, the blonde could see Margie rubbing soothing circles along the taller boy’s back as she was wont to do when he became morose. Her next words were tempered and affectionate. 

“My boy, if there is a girl who has caught your attention, shouldn’t you pursue her? You’ll never learn where she stands on her feelings for you, if you don’t attempt.”

A cold sweat broke out across the younger boy’s skin and his breath stuttered in his lungs. He knew he should leave, walk away before he heard anymore about something so private, something his friend hadn’t wanted to share with him. But he was frozen in place, his hand mysteriously pressing against his chest, as he listened.

Alistair leaned his elbows on the table and covered his face with his large hands. “No. I can’t. It’s not that simple.”

With a tender gaze the woman shook her head lightly. “And why not? Because you are training to be a Templar? You would not be the first or the last recruit with a sweetheart.”

One of the older maids who had known him since he was a gangly kid meandered over and patted him kindly on the shoulder. 

“Is it Tamara, the weaver’s daughter? She’s a lovely thing.”

The older warrior hummed noncommittally, well aware of whom she meant. Master Gregory’s daughter was known in four surrounding hamlets as the prettiest girl within a thirty-mile radius and surely had a list of suitors half as long. Dark wavy hair framing a heart-shaped face with sparkling blue eyes that paired beautifully with her soft smile and rounded curves. Yes, she was lovely and if someone had asked him a year ago, he would have readily agreed. 

Now, however, his thoughts were filled with warm gold and amber, the cut of a strong jaw and muscular frame. Not a touch of femininity to be found - only raw power that sent shivers down his spine. 

Shaking his head, he exhaled raggedly. “No, it’s not her. I-I can’t say who it is. It wouldn’t matter, anyway. They’d never want me, so it’s best to stay silent on this. Trust me. It’s better this way.”

Margie blinked rapidly while hiding her slow smile behind her mug of wine. “All right, dear, if you say so.” 

The woman stood, ruffling the young man’s hair affectionately as she did, checking the preparation of the greens that would make up the herb salad for the evening’s roast. Deeming the maid’s work acceptable, she turned to Alistair with gentle admonishment. 

“Dinner is almost ready, my boy. You best find Cullen before they ring the bell. Will I be seeing both of you for kitchen duty or just you?”

Alistair rose with a shrug, the short stool legs screeching against the rough stone floor. “Cullen said he would help, but I haven’t spoken to him since vigil. Maybe he changed his mind.”

The cook grinned and wiped her hands on her apron, tilting her head towards the doorway. “Oh, I don’t think so, dear.”

Swiveling his head, Alistair found Cullen sheepishly standing in the entryway. Rubbing the back of his neck, the blonde murmured, “I’ve been looking for you. You disappeared after vigil. I should have known I’d find you here stealing Margie’s sticky buns.”

A breathy chuckle bubbled past the older boy’s lips and he blushed, hoping that his friend hadn’t heard too much of his earlier conversation. Collecting himself, Alistair tossed him a lazy smirk and announced, “Where else would I be?”

Cullen quirked an eyebrow, an unspoken statement passing between them. _I can think of a couple places._ Alistair’s smirk broadened into a grin and he nodded in concession, his stomach fluttering at the other boy’s warm laugh. 

Shaking his head fondly, the blonde stepped inside the room and clasped the older boy by the elbow, leading him out of the kitchen with a wave to Margie. 

“So, are you going to tell me why you’ve been avoiding me all day?” Cullen asked quietly once they entered the side passage.

Alistair sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “It’s stupid. Tell me - do you ever have days where you wake up and doubt every thought or decision you’ve ever made?” The younger boy frowned with a slow shake of his head. 

With a brittle smile, the auburn-haired warrior waved the question aside. “Ah, well. It doesn’t matter. I just need a hearty dinner and three hours of scrubbing pots and pans to wear me out so I can sleep it off. I’ll be fine tomorrow. Some days I just feel a little -”

“Stop.” 

Alistair’s mouth snapped shut at Cullen’s brusque tone, his eyes wide and his feet halting in surprise. Blowing out a frustrated breath with a pinched expression, the blonde clenched his hands by his sides. Swallowing hard, the younger boy found his voice. 

“I... apologize for snapping at you. I just _hate_ when you disparage yourself. You are one of the best warriors I’ve ever seen and the kindest person I know. I wish,” he sighed, “I wish you could see yourself the way I do. The way Margie does. Then maybe you wouldn't struggle with so much self-doubt.”

The older boy flushed to hear his friend’s praise and his chest tightened at the sight of the red coloring the blonde’s ears. “Th-thank you, Cullen. I-I appreciate that… more than you know.” 

The blush on the younger boy’s face spread further and Alistair smiled in the dim lighting, words he wished he was brave enough to say, dancing on the tip of his tongue.

An impish smirk quirked the corner of Cullen’s mouth and he bumped the taller boy with his shoulder, his words soft so they wouldn’t carry. 

“It won’t take you three hours to wash the dishes, because I’ll be there to help. Between the two of us we can do it in half the time and still have time for a game tonight. If… if you want.”

Alistair beamed at his friend and bumped him shyly in return, his own voice hushed when he replied. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Clearing their throats and suddenly unable to look at one another, the boys continued their trek through the passages towards the dormitories in companionable silence with small smiles lighting their features.

* * *

A couple of hours later the boys were scrubbing dishes in the kitchen with sleeves rolled up to their biceps. They were unusually mute. Cullen’s proximity while covered in soap suds outlining the muscles of his arms were a distraction. The shock whenever their pruned fingers touched as they passed dishes to each other made the taller boy lightheaded. His hazel eyes were once again captivated by the younger boy’s mouth, entranced by the sight of Cullen’s full lip worried by pearly teeth, and he bit his cheek to restrain himself from pressing a kiss to them before the other boy broke skin. 

For his part the blonde tried to smother the stinging stab of jealousy when he considered the possibilities of who held Alistair’s affections, unsure why it mattered so much, while secretly wishing that someone might think of him romantically. Cullen knew the kitchen maids found him handsome, but they didn’t _know_ him and he wanted more than the shallow interest of flighty girls. But he was too shy to put himself out there, especially in the village, since he didn’t know anyone.

Passing a plate to the taller boy their fingers slid together through the soapy residue and Cullen inhaled sharply, which startled Alistair and nearly sent the dish crashing to the floor. But the older boy’s reflexes were quick, and he snatched the metal edge before it could clang along the stone.

Mumbling awkward apologies to one another, they didn’t notice Margie as she sidled next to them and plucked the offending plate from their dripping hands with an indulgent hum.

“Okay, boys. That’s enough for tonight. There are only a few left and I can handle them on my own. Now dry your hands and be sure to grab yourself a slab of sourdough before you go. I’ll see you both tomorrow evening.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they murmured in embarrassment. 

With quick hugs goodbye, they snatched their snack and ambled back to their room. As they entered their chamber, licking the butter off their fingers, the weight of what transpired in the kitchen descended again. In silence the boys washed their hands and faces in the corner basin before changing into lightweight sleep pants.

Cullen hovered by the chessboard that now resided in their room and Alistair smiled in approval, settling onto his stomach on the blonde’s bed. A faint smirk graced the younger boy’s lips as he got comfortable on the mattress and Alistair set up the pieces.

Alistair made the opening move and the other boy followed suit. As they played the tension dissipated, but Cullen’s mind still whirred. Clearing his throat, he broke the quiet, his voice strained despite trying to prevent it.

“Alistair... I-I’ve a question. You’re older than me…” He paused and the other boy cocked a curious eyebrow.

“Barely older, but yes. Why? What’s wrong? You seem... tense.”

Shaking his head, the younger boy huffed. “I don’t know. I guess... Satinalia is two weeks away and I know the Revered Mother gives us leave to go to the village for the holiday.” Swallowing nervously, he valiantly continued. “And... I’ve heard some girls…”

Snorting softly, Alistair smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, yes. The girls will try to kiss the handsome Templar recruits. That is what you’re asking, right?” 

Cheeks flaming, Cullen nodded and hastily moved a piece without thinking. Alistair’s eyebrows shot into his hair when he realized his friend gave him an opening to win. His stomach knotted with anxiety at the discovery that all it took to ruin the blonde’s focus was to talk about kissing the village girls. 

_Keep it together, Alistair. Give nothing away._

Making his move, the older boy kept his tone neutral. “Why so nervous? I’m sure there will be plenty of girls in town that will lay one on you.”

Cullen frowned when he noticed the state of the board, merely sighing as he tried to correct his earlier error. “That's… not why I ask.”

“Oh?” 

Keeping his focus on the pieces, Alistair didn’t glance at his friend as he used a knight to capture one of his pawns. The younger boy huffed in irritation at the loss and the auburn-haired boy smothered a grin. Winning against Cullen was a rarity and even though it was a conversation he didn’t want to have, he appreciated the distraction of the game to make it worth his while.

“No,” the younger boy continued. Cullen studied the board critically, mentally determining the remainder of the game in the next six moves. “I ask because… damn it, Alistair! How in the Void did you manage to win this game already?”

The older boy fell over with laughter, catching sight of the blonde’s fond smile, helpless to stop the rush of joy that burned in his chest. Cullen removed the board, the game declared Alistair’s, and returned to the bed. Once calmed, the taller boy propped his head on his hand and flicked his gaze to his friend leaning against the cool stone.

“So, tell me,” Alistair queried. “Why ask if you aren’t worried about getting a kiss from a lovely lady?”

Cullen fidgeted and glanced at his hands in his lap. His voice low when he stopped swallowing enough to answer. 

“H-How do you know if… if someone likes you? Or if _you_ like someone?” Wringing his hands together, the boy hung his head. “I’ve grown up… very sheltered. A small village boy to a monastery. I don’t… I don’t know how to tell these things.”

With a steadying breath, Alistair tried to dislodge his heart from his throat. Cullen was still his best friend and he would not betray him by steering him wrong or giving him false information. Regardless of who the boy might have feelings for, he would be there to help him.

“Weeeelll, I can’t say I have much more experience than you, after all.” Cullen sighed and nodded sadly which made Alistair nauseous. “Buuut, I think a common reaction to someone you like is how they make you feel. Warm, safe, comfortable. It heats you up from the inside and radiates out, or sometimes you get so excited to see them that your stomach ties up in knots and you get lightheaded or shaky.”

The auburn-haired boy stared at the coverlet, picking it with his calloused fingers, oblivious to the calculating gaze under long golden lashes studying him. 

“Sounds like you may have more experience than I do, after all, Alistair,” the blonde murmured softly. 

The older boy’s face turned a deeper bronze through his blush and the same twang of jealousy hit Cullen again, but he shoved it aside, believing he was merely envious at the possibility of sharing his friend.

“I see. Well, thank you for explaining it to me. I’m sorry to sound ignorant -”

Alistair clutched his hand, halting his words, his rich golden-brown eyes imploring as he stared at the blonde. “You’re not ignorant, Cullen. You’ve just never felt this before and it's new. Please, I hate when you use that word to describe yourself. Few of us came from large townships or cities. Growing up in the country does not make you ignorant or stupid or in any way unsuitable.”

Smirking, the younger boy teased. “Not understanding something is the correct definition of that word, Alistair.”

“I don’t care,” he emphasized, squeezing the calloused hand in his grip. “I still hate it.” 

Releasing him with a start, the taller boy pushed himself into a sitting position and tried to ignore the ghostly press of the other boy’s fingers his touch left behind. Cullen swallowed hard and clenched his fist to forget how nice his friend’s hand felt tucked against his palm. 

Neither of them spoke for a long moment, but when Alistair slid his legs over the edge of the bed to get up, Cullen snatched his wrist. 

“Will… you stay with me tonight? Unless you don’t want to, of course -”

The auburn-haired boy glanced at the floor and steeled his heart. He would take whatever Cullen gave him, even crumbs, because it was better than not having him at all. Lifting his face to the younger boy, he smirked to hide the pain. 

“Scoot over then.” 

Cullen didn’t comment on the odd expression on the other boy’s face, only smiling weakly as he moved aside. Once under the sheets, Alistair blew out the candle and sprawled on his side, like he always did the times they'd shared a bed since the night he told Cullen who his father was. 

Facing the wall, Alistair tried not to crowd his friend in his own bed or notice how nice he smelled. They hadn’t sparred today and there was a hint of musk still present on his skin even after their quick bedtime rinse. He tried not to think of how different it would feel to run his fingers through his soft curls like this, instead of ruffling them teasingly after a good training session.

“You don’t have to be stiff, Alistair. It's not comfortable on the edge of the bed,” Cullen murmured in the dark.

Chuckling to hide his unease, the older boy flippantly replied. “Just maintaining proper boundaries.”

Scoffing into his pillow, Cullen pulled the other boy’s arm over his torso. Alistair gasped slightly behind him as his body followed his arm, his naked chest pressing against Cullen’s bare back.

“There is no point. We’ll wake up like this anyway,” the blonde joked. The comment earned him a genuine snort of amusement from his best friend, sending hot breath rushing over the shell of his ear causing goosebumps to erupt along his ivory skin.

“Fair enough,” whispered Alistair. “Good night, Cullen.”

Snuggling into his pillow with a contented smile, the blonde mumbled his own good night. Alistair remained stiff and unsure behind his friend as the younger boy slowly drifted into sleep. Only when Cullen was pliant and his breathing even, did Alistair allow himself to relax. He molded his body around his friend, tugging him close to his chest, nuzzling his curls with his nose - all the while wishing Cullen was aware of the affection he bestowed on him. That he knew the touches they shared during the day weren’t accidental. That he knew he cared about him, as more than a friend.

A crazy thought passed his mind. Heart pounding in his chest, he tilted his head upwards and brushed his lips lightly across the blonde’s temple. He froze immediately afterwards, fear running ice cold in his veins, afraid Cullen might wake up and be angry. But the younger boy was deep in the Fade, trusting and content in his embrace. The fear tried to spark into guilt, but Alistair triumphed over the emotion attempting to tarnish a tender moment. He wouldn’t allow the one time he was likely to ever kiss the boy he was falling head over heels for to be ruined when it was given with a pure heart. 

Tucking the blonde’s head under his chin, Alistair held on tight to his friend. Tears cascaded silently across the planes of his face - a toll collected by the pillow, payment for keeping his secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Chant verses come from Transfigurations.
> 
> Transfigurations 1:1-4; 1:8; 1:15


	4. Set You Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [](https://imgbb.com/)  
>   
> Fan art of the Chantry bois by the wonderful kittimau!! Find her work on tumblr, AO3, and pillowfort under the same name for excellent artwork and writing!!

**  
Wintermarch 11, 9:25 Dragon**

Cullen growled under his breath, hooking Geoff’s sword with the crossbar of his hilt and twisted, sending his opponent's weapon skittering across the stone floor. He followed immediately with a quick sidestep and slammed his shield into the other boy’s plated chest, knocking the wind from his opponent when his back met the ground. The dull sword edge tickled the skin of the older recruit’s throat as the blonde panted heavily above him, amber eyes flashing dangerously with a snarl. 

“Do you yield?”

Geoff met the burnished glare and spat. “Yes. I yield.” 

Cullen slowly removed the blade from his neck while leaning closer to the older boy splayed on the floor. “Next time you dare make baseless speculation, you can say them to my face and not my back, Geoff.”

The flattened opponent chuckled with a sneer. “You sure do jump to his defense like a lover, Cullen.”

The dark-haired boy swallowed hard when the younger boy’s eyes turned flinty and he knew he’d pushed too far. Cullen was no longer a skinny little kid. After nine months of intense training to catch up with his fellow recruits, combined with his sudden growth spurt, he was almost as tall and broad as his best friend and equally strong. Yanking him up by his plate, Cullen brought Geoff to his feet to stare him down.

“Listen closely, you entitled piece of shit, because I will only say this once. I defend him like a _friend_ , because that is what friends do, but you wouldn’t know a damn thing about that. Too used to buying friendship and favors like your noble boot-licking father. The next time you so much as _imply_ anything about Alistair’s father, I won’t challenge you to fight with honor. I’ll wipe the Maker-damned floor with your face. Pass the message to the others.” 

Releasing him with a jerk, Cullen unbuckled his breastplate and hung it on the nearest stand. He left his sword and shield scattered along the ground where he tossed them when he grabbed Geoff, too antsy to stay in the room any longer. The crowd filling the doorway of the indoor training ring parted to let him pass, murmuring quietly to each other as he strode angrily through them. 

The bullying had intensified over the last few months and he tried to explain it away as a stir-crazy itch burrowing under everyone’s skin. Winter had arrived and adamantly refused to leave, burying the exterior courtyard in snow. Lessons were broken into small classes held in the indoor training room, but for a monastery full of active boys chomping at the bit for fresh air, tempers flared and fights were common. The Knights only stepped in if things became serious, and one or both parties were in danger of maiming. They understood the cooped-up aggression of warriors who desperately sought an outlet for their excess energy.

Yet, Cullen knew that wasn’t the impetus for the hostility. The Revered Mother had been correct months ago when she warned Alistair that her ability to rein in the gossip was nearing its end. Soon the dorms were ablaze with hearsay. All they lacked was Alistair’s confirmation. Though, even without it, Maric’s portrait in the entryway wasn’t doing his friend any favors. It was pretty much common knowledge, no matter how much he and Alistair denied it. 

But the thinly veiled accusations that the two of them were lovers was a recent addition to the slander. Today was the first time anyone said it directly to his face, however.

Swinging into their room, Cullen huffed to find it empty, aggravated that Alistair wasn’t present until he noticed the slight rise of the older boy’s coverlet. Whenever the edge of their blanket was raised in a small peak, it was a signal that they were to meet in the south tower. Unable to reach their grove outside, the tower was the only place they could guarantee privacy. 

Checking the corridor, he slipped out of the dormitory. Sneaking through the now familiar passages, skirting recruits and priests alike, he worked his way around the square design of the abbey in the shadows. Upon reaching the worn stairs of the tower, he confidently took them two at a time and pulled himself through the opening. The whispered _schuff_ of his boots along the stone alerted Alistair to his presence. Spinning on his heels to face him, the other boy’s features relaxed when he realized who it was.

Alistair leaned his shoulder on the wall with arms and ankles crossed, the picture of calculated disinterest, and gave him a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Cullen mirrored his body language on the arch next to him, brow quirked in silent question as they stared at one another, waiting to see who would speak first. 

The rigidity of Alistair’s shoulders and clenched jaw gave away his anger, but Cullen didn’t remark on it. The older boy caught the unspoken challenge in the blonde’s gaze, daring him to broach the subject they had so far avoided, yet stood like a druffalo in the room.

Shaking his head, Alistair broke the silence, his words quiet yet sharp. “You can’t… keep doing this, Cullen. You only add fuel to the fire every time you rise to my defense.” He held up a hand to halt the other boy’s tirade, and the blonde clamped his mouth shut, huffing through his nose in irritation. 

“I appreciate what you have done for me, but it’s not going to make them stop. It will only cause them to goad harder. Hit below the belt.” 

Alistair cocked an eyebrow meaningfully, hoping that his friend understood what he was saying without having to spell it out. Pursing his lips, Cullen fumed and ran a hand through his mop of curls in aggravation, working his jaw back and forth. 

“So, I should do nothing then? Allow them to continue harassing you? Insinuating things about us?”

Alistair’s smile was brittle, ice settling around his heart when the younger boy sneered regarding the implications of their relationship going beyond friendship. 

“I stood up for myself before you arrived and after, as well. Just because you have nearly surpassed all of us with your talent, doesn’t mean I am incapable of fighting my own battles.”

Scoffing, Cullen rolled his amber eyes, brows furrowed as he tried to calm his racing pulse, unsure why it suddenly coursed lightning fast through his veins. 

“I never said you couldn’t or even implied such a thing! You’re one of the most capable warriors here. You helped me get to this point!” 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, the younger boy’s lids fluttered shut as he breathed deeply. Reevaluating his actions through the other recruits’ point of view, it became apparent why they would all assume what they did about the nature of their relationship. Continuing to breathe for a few moments, Cullen finally spoke again with control. 

“I can see how that might give the wrong impression,” he murmured in the oppressive silence. “I never meant for it to. I was only trying to help and keep my oath. You’re my friend, Alistair. How do you expect me to let it go unchallenged?” 

Cullen’s eyes popped open at the feather-light touch of his friend’s large hand resting on his shoulder. His chest constricted to see the warmth suffusing the older boy’s features that paired well with his soft smile. The smile, Cullen now realized, he’d been hoping to see since he entered their room and found it empty. 

“I know that, Cullen, but you have to. They will grow bolder and you can’t throw your weight around at every jibe.” Alistair rolled his shoulders with an affected casualness that convinced neither of them. “Let it roll off you, like I do.” 

The blonde winced and Alistair frowned, his grip on his friend’s collarbone unconsciously tightening. 

“It may be too late for that,” Cullen muttered. “Geoff said as much to my face today. It seems nothing we say can dissuade them on either issue at this point. Even though it’s unconfirmed, they all know who your father is, and they will continue to use our friendship to bait us.”

Inhaling sharply, Alistair stepped back as though burned. He thought they were only taunting him openly about being lovers, and he repaid them by rubbing their smug grins in the dirt during training. But attacking Cullen directly would cost them all in spades. With a snarl, he turned and slapped his palm against the wall in rage; the clap echoing around the circular room as he seethed. 

A hand pressed gently on his back and Alistair suppressed a shiver at the boy’s touch. He knew Cullen didn’t return his affections. He hadn’t been willing to ruin their friendship just because his stomach fluttered at the sound of the boy’s laughter or his heart skipped beats whenever they were together. It took all of his willpower not to dance his calloused fingers along his smooth ivory skin or tangle them in his flaxen curls. 

And right now, Cullen’s hand felt like a brand through his tunic, radiating heat under the boy’s sword roughened palm from the center of his spine, sending fire along every nerve in his body. The auburn-haired youth trembled slightly as he restrained the urge to spin and shove the other boy against the stone. To kiss his distracting lips until both of them gasped for breath.

Stepping aside with reluctance, a silent decision made, Alistair shook his head forlornly. He tried to ignore the cavernous hole gaping wide in his chest as he forced himself to speak. 

“Cullen… I-I’m sorry. I never meant for you to get roped into –” Sighing heavily, Alistair rubbed a hand aggressively across his chiseled features, pulling himself to his full height to prepare for what he had to say next. 

“I release you from your promise.”

The younger boy doubled over as though someone had punched him, all the air wrenched forcefully from his lungs, and he ogled the other boy in horror. Surely, he couldn’t be serious? Not after all they’d been through. 

“Alistair… d-don’t do this to me. You’re the only friend I have. When I joined, I dreamed of nothing except being a Templar, but you… you’ve shown me there is more than simply duty! That living a life in service to the Maker doesn’t have to be serious all the time. I’ve laughed more in the last few months with you than I think I have in my entire life!”

Taking a step toward him with hand outstretched, the blonde’s actions implored the older boy to see reason, his fair features creased in agitation. A thousand cuts pierced Alistair’s soul, knowing that he caused his pain, and he took a step back for every one of Cullen’s. 

“It’s the only way to spare you. I’m trying to protect you, damn it!”

Cullen ceased walking, brought short by Alistair’s statement. Clenching his fists, he growled in frustration. “From what, exactly? Gossip and slander? We’ve had nothing else since the day I arrived! You would let our friendship end for that alone?”

“NO! Because -” _Because I care for you and you’re too good for me and you could never see me that way despite what the rumors say._

Alistair closed his eyes and willed his tongue to cooperate, too thick and heavy with repressed heartbreak, and focused on his secondary reason for freeing the younger boy from his oath. Spearing the blonde with a frank stare, Alistair barreled on. 

“Because I am a distraction. I’m keeping you from your full potential. I’ll only hold you back! Like you said, you’ve dreamed of this your whole _life_ and I’ve dreamed of how to escape. I won’t stand in your way of attaining what you’ve lived and breathed for since you were eight years old, Cullen. I won’t do it. I’m a better friend than that and I know when to walk away for your sake.”

Cullen reeled. The floor felt as though it might give way beneath his feet and send him careening from the top of the tower to the courtyard at any moment. His chest _ached._ Massive waves of nausea churned his insides. It felt like part of him, _the best part,_ was being excised, leaving an ugly wound in its wake.

Grasping at straws, Cullen croaked, desperation tinging every word. “You won’t let me have a say in my own choices? I _chose_ you, Alistair, and I swore to always guard your back. And if you want me to stand down and let you fight your own battles, I will! But that doesn’t mean I’m less your friend.” 

Alistair’s heart migrated north and lodged itself in his throat, making it hard to swallow, to fucking _breathe,_ the longer he stayed and watched Cullen’s eyes fill with anguish. Agony _he_ caused, agony that resonated in his bones. Maker, he wished it hadn’t come to this. Hurting him was worse than hurting himself, but the older boy steeled himself and dug deep for the final push. 

“It’s for the best. It’s unfair to both of us to keep things as they are.” 

Liar. He knew Cullen was the one being treated unfairly in this situation. Alistair was an idiot who fell for his friend like everyone assumed, which forced him to this extreme. At least, he knew the axe was coming, but his betrayal had blindsided the blonde. It was the ultimate treachery. 

But he couldn’t allow himself to ruin Cullen’s life the way he ruined everything else. 

He was a bastard. A stain. A secret shoved into a mold he was never meant to fit. While Cullen was proud and good and true – everything a warrior, a Templar, a _man,_ was meant to be. 

Alistair selfishly couldn’t remain close to him, hoping not to make a damned fool of himself keeping things platonic, when he longed for so much more. He thought he could and sweet Andraste, he had _tried_ , but it was killing him slowly. The realization that the only way to save his sanity since his feelings would remain unrequited, meant severing their friendship was equally devastating, but it needed to be done. Dragging it out any longer would only make it more difficult. 

Reaching down to pick up a book from the ground, the older boy dusted off the cover with shaky fingers, before closing the gap between them and pressing it against the younger boy’s broad chest. Cullen’s hand automatically clutched the gift and Alistair scrambled away to reduce the chances of touching him, which he knew would break his tenuous resolve. 

“I was going to wait until tomorrow and give it to you on your official birthday, but... well. Happy birthday, Cullen... you will always be my best friend and I’m sorry that I’m such an awful one. You deserve… so much better than me.” 

Burnished amber and polished bronze locked for an instant, brimming with matching tears, as he made his escape. 

“Alistair!” 

Cullen lunged for him, but despite his size, the older boy was nimble and easily evaded his grasp to fly down the stairs. Frozen in shock, the blonde rocked on his feet, overcome with vertigo, his voice cracking on a single word. 

“Alistair…” 

Tears spilled hot and fast over his cheeks, leaving muddy droplets on the ancient stone, while hushed cries tumbled from parted lips. Pressing a hand to his chest, the hard edge of the book bit into his sternum as he broke.

At the foot of the stairs, Alistair doubled over in a visceral reaction to Cullen’s sobs. Forcefully swallowing the bile climbing up his throat, he shoved a fist in his mouth to stifle his own grief-stricken whimpers. He heard Cullen slide along the wall to the floor and took that as his cue to leave, slinking into the shadows and ducking through forgotten passages. 

When the estate still belonged to the former bann, the corridors were the servant’s halls, allowing them to move unobserved by the noble residents. Now, the same passages were useful for hiding from those he didn’t want seeing him cry after he destroyed the one good thing he ever had. 

Alistair kept trying to tell himself it was to protect Cullen’s reputation. The Chantry did not denounce relationships between men, nor would they be the only couple in the abbey, but his tormentors wouldn’t let something so interesting go without daily derision since it involved _him._ The King’s bastard. 

It wasn’t the first time he wished he could change his lineage, but it was the most fervent time he hoped for such a divine miracle. If he were a poor farmer’s son, given to the Chantry because the family had too many mouths to feed, then no one would care if he and Cullen crossed into the realm of _more than_ friends.

Void! It was an open secret that Ser Tabor and Ser Erlic were in a relationship, which was definitely ‘fraternizing.’ Ser Miles and the Revered Mother were permissive enough to allow it, provided it didn’t interfere with their ability to train the recruits. It never had. They were always professional and kinder than some other Knights in their instruction, but they held the boys to a high standard. The recruits all strove for their approval, unwilling to disappoint the warriors who treated them as equals.

Although none of that mattered. Cullen was straight as an arrow, and Alistair would never want the rumors of a false relationship to cause him any embarrassment. 

Alistair was doing this as his friend. 

Alistair was doing this _for_ his friend. 

Alistair was doing this for _himself_.

Sinking to his knees when he could no longer see the floor under his feet, his large frame quaked with suppressed sobs. Wrapping his arms around his middle, he attempted to center himself amid the agonizing crush of separation.

_Maker, forgive me. Let him forgive me one day, too._

In the tower, Cullen clutched his book in bleak realization. He cared for Alistair. _Deeply_. Maker’s breath, he’d been too naïve to recognize it sooner, and now he couldn’t tell him since the other boy made it obvious it would never come to pass. He’d ended their friendship over the mere _rumor_ of such a liaison. Was it really such an abhorrent idea, caring for a man _that_ way, or was it the thought of a romantic relationship with _him?_

Cullen knew that he wasn’t effortlessly handsome or naturally gregarious like Alistair. And while their opposite personalities made them great friends, the older boy probably wanted someone less timid as a partner. Someone whose nose wasn’t stuck in a book when he wasn’t relentlessly training or focusing on his meditations during free time. 

Alistair teased Cullen when he learned the lyrics to the hymns they sang in choir. Meanwhile, the older boy fumbled along beside him, barely raising the rich baritone that sent the blonde’s pulse racing, so no one would know he didn’t know the words. No, Alistair was lively and full of mischief. He surely wanted someone alike in that regard.

Recalling the lascivious glances of the kitchen maids and the other boy’s flirtatious winks and teasing comments, the younger boy’s heart seized painfully. Of course, he was so stupid. Alistair would never be interested in him since he could have his pick of village girls. He was probably turned off by the possibility of Cullen being attracted to him, which explained why he ended their friendship. To prevent the boy from a speck on the map, a nobody kid from a nowhere hamlet, from getting the wrong idea about him. 

Alistair might not be acknowledged royalty, but he was still of royal blood, and nobles did _not_ engage in same-sex relationships. They had lineages to preserve. Though the older boy was outside the line of succession, those sentiments about such alliances ran deep. The auburn-haired youth would never be interested in pursuing a man. His winsome smile and noble bearing were better suited to garner favor with the fairer sex. 

The blonde grimaced when he remembered Satinalia a couple of months prior. Pretty village girls begging kisses under the moonlight fawned all over the bronze warrior. Even though, to his knowledge, Alistair evaded their advances, the older boy hadn’t been able to rid himself of their attention. He reeled Cullen into the merriment of the holiday and forced him to have fun, but it tinged the whole experience with a bitterness that until this moment the younger boy hadn’t been able to explain. 

Knocking his head against the wall, he blew out a ragged exhale. His tears spent for the time being, chest hollowed out and empty, he glanced at the book in his arms. He flipped it right side up to read the lettering on the cover.

 _A History of the Alamarri._

A strangled pitiful noise, some distorted combination of a laugh and a cry, slipped past his lips. The gift truly touched Cullen. He wasn’t sure how or when the other boy even convinced the Revered Mother to allow him to travel to the village in order to purchase it, which made it more special. 

Alistair knew how much the younger boy loved Ferelden history and unlike the books in the library that he could not keep, this one was _his_. He could read it as often as he liked, and he would treasure it. Hugging the book tight to his chest, he pressed the small piece of Alistair where his heart used to be. 

The heart he unknowingly gave to the golden warrior with the mischievous smile and sparkling eyes. Blinking back a fresh round of tears, the blonde mentally shook himself. 

Wiping his tear-stained face with his sleeve, Cullen pushed off the ground and took a final look around the tower. This was Alistair’s place before it was his, and he would probably never come back here. Closing his eyes, he tried to block out the onslaught of memories of their months spent here, laughing and talking sprawled on the floor, or working on footwork and hand-to-hand techniques to help him catch up to the other recruits. 

On lead feet, Cullen descended the first two stairs and rested the book on the top stoop. Turning carefully on the worn stone, he grabbed the slab of flooring that sealed the tower, and with the ease borne of months of practice, slid the stone in place. Sucking in a ragged breath, he pressed his palm to the hidden entrance in silent goodbye. 

Snatching his book before he became melancholy again, he skittered down the stairwell, taking the abandoned passages Alistair taught him to navigate, and headed for their room. His steps faltered slightly as he prepared himself for the awkwardness of sharing a room with his once best friend, and apparent crush, who ended their friendship for the sake of propriety.

Cullen arrived to find the room empty and sent a prayer to the Maker for small favors. Opening the third drawer of their shared dresser, he tucked his book among his tunics with care, and snapped the drawer closed. Wandering to the basin in the corner, he hastily splashed his face and hands to remove the dirt from the tower, toweling his skin dry with more fervor than necessary. 

Glancing around the room, his gaze fell on the chessboard, tightening his throat with a renewed rush of anguish. Well, that would definitely go back to the library. Snatching the board, he marched purposefully into the large room and deposited it on the first empty table he saw with a clatter. A few heads in the chamber swiveled to ogle him with surprise, but he ignored them and ducked into the lines of shelving to hide. 

There was time to spare before the dinner bell rang and Cullen had no desire to sulk in their room. Snagging a book at random, he found an empty chair in an undisturbed corner to read. 

He didn’t absorb a single word. 

Letters and phrases danced like mirages until he blinked away the tears that kept spitefully returning and attempted to pick up where he left off. Sometimes Cullen remembered to turn a page and give the impression he was reading and not brooding, but he knew he was merely avoiding the inevitable.

The bell clanged raucous and loud through the abbey. His fellows in the library jumped up in excitement to descend on the dining hall like a pack of ravenous wolves. His appetite, however, had been replaced with an anchor, threatening to sink him beneath the waves of his own despair, but he couldn’t skip the meal. Unless sick or injured, all recruits were expected to attend. Rising unsteadily, Cullen slunk to the hall, uncertain what his next steps would be upon arrival.

He needn’t have worried. Alistair had beaten him there. 

Sitting at a table up front, far away from their usual place, his broad back faced the entryway so he couldn’t see when Cullen entered or where he sat. Swallowing hard, the blonde joined a table of recruits his age, keeping his face angled away from the boy at the head of the room. The others around the table shared astonished glances, but didn’t engage him in conversation while they ate. Cullen’s plate went untouched, and once the recruits were excused from the hall, he was one of the first out the door.

Alistair saw him duck into the chapel and breathed a sigh of relief. If the younger boy planned to join the evening vigil, then he could take a quick dip in the baths and head to bed early. Hopefully, he’d be asleep by the time Cullen finished his meditation. Snagging a pair of clothes, Alistair dashed to the bathing room where he rapidly divested himself of his attire and slipped into the hot water with a pleasant groan. 

Wasting no time, he washed his body swiftly and efficiently. Though he doubted after what he did today that he could ever be ‘clean’ again. Scrubbing his face with all the gentleness of scouring a pot with a year’s worth of eggs hardened on the bottom, Alistair hid the tears that continued to flow unchecked before attacking his scalp with the same self-loathing. 

Replaying the images of the tower in his mind was a torture Alistair knew he deserved. His heartless words echoed repeatedly while Cullen doubled over in grief. An answering pain lanced his heart each time, and he felt his barely eaten dinner threatening to reappear. 

He doubted Cullen could ever forgive him. How could he, when he would never be able to forgive himself?

Voices echoing in the corridor shook him from his reverie, and he hastily dipped beneath the water to rinse his hair and scrambled out of the pool to dress before any of the others could verbally assault him. As wound up as he was, he was likely to snap. Alistair didn’t want to test the limits of his patience or his right hook. He just wanted to be alone.

Without a word, he shoved his way out of the incoming crush of unwashed boys, his nose crinkling against the abysmal hygiene standards of some of his fellows. Cullen was fastidious in his grooming and always smelled fresh and clean. Unless it was after training, which was to be expected, but even then he was the only one who didn’t make him gag after a full day of working up a sweat. The blonde smelled musky and earthy, a heady scent that drove him crazy.

Reaching their room, the auburn-haired boy shut the door and slammed his head against the wood. Maker, damn it! That train of thought would not help him. Ever. 

Alistair stared at his bed and his heart sank. Sharing a bed had become a habit for them. Not every night, but common enough that they alternated which one they slept in. Cullen preferred the firm ticking of Alistair’s bed, but Alistair liked the dip in the far side of Cullen’s that cradled his back after a rough day of sparring. And frequently they woke in the morning to find their arms and legs tangled together, back to chest, or sometimes chest to chest with someone’s head tucked under the other’s chin.

They never discussed it. Instead, merely brushed it off as best friends who were _very_ comfortable together as they climbed out to start their day. And he knew, in Cullen’s case, that was true. The younger boy had grown up sharing a bed with three other people and didn’t enjoy being alone. For him, sharing their sleeping space was purely for comfort. There would never be more from him. 

Now, though, Alistair wished he’d at least been brave enough to tell his friend how he felt. He doubted that Cullen would have been as brutal as he had been to him. Probably would have let him down with that singular kindness that made his heart swell, and even after rejecting him, they might have remained friends. It would have been awkward for a time, sure, but that would have faded if they could ignore his ill-timed confession. 

Or maybe… just maybe, Cullen would have admitted that he had similar feelings. They might have kissed. Alistair’s entire body flamed when he returned to his favorite daydream, wondering how Cullen’s lips would feel against his own. 

He squashed the idea before he could get carried away. 

Grumbling to himself, Alistair marched to his bed and ripped back the sheets, pulling them all the way to his neck and stared angrily at the ceiling. Because of him, nothing would be the same again. It shouldn’t bother him. He’d been alone his whole life until Cullen arrived. But after almost an entire year with a friend to guard his back, teaching him to play chess, stealing to the kitchens with him for snacks and conversation with Margie - he wasn’t sure he could go back to being the local pariah. 

To being alone. 

This time of his own doing.

Tears scalded his lids, and he furiously wiped them away as he rolled onto his right side to stare at the wall. The smart clip of boots rang along the corridor outside. Vigil completed for the eve meant that Cullen would arrive any minute. Yanking the blankets so high up his face that his toes were in danger of exposure, Alistair closed his eyes and willed his racing heart to slow so he could pretend to be asleep.

It felt like an eternity passed before the door carefully opened, _scuffing_ with a whisper along the flagstones when Cullen entered. Alistair could see the other boy’s indecision in his mind’s eye as he hovered by the foot of his bed. He secretly hoped that Cullen would call him an ass and demand that they deal with the idiot recruits together. 

But he didn’t. 

The younger boy rushed to his bed and yanked off his boots, snuffed the candle on the dresser, and crawled under his sheets.

A weighty silence hung in the dark room, heavy and thick with emotion, tense with words unspoken. Both of them wished they had the courage to speak, but found they didn’t have the words to explain their frame of mind. The boys listened to each other breathe, pointedly ignoring the occasional hitch in their gentle rhythms and the muffled sniffles that echoed loudly in the stillness.

Alistair didn’t fall asleep until two hours before the morning bell, caving in from pure exhaustion, unable to wait any longer for the words he knew were never coming again. He felt the loss with a painful acuteness, his lips mouthing them silently in the grim dark, as tears leaked from the corners of his eyes to wet his pillow. 

_Good night._


	5. Come Back To Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of now, this story is rated E in preparation for future chapters, so I don't forget. Just wanted to warn everyone! Happy reading!!

**Drakonis 10, 9:25 Dragon**

Over the last two months the boys settled into a routine to avoid awkwardness, which relied heavily upon avoidance. Entirely, in fact. 

Alistair was not an early riser, but he made it a point to get up first, dressing in the freezing dark before slipping out of their room. Cullen always kept his back turned as Alistair changed, rolling out of bed after he left to quickly follow suit, in case he returned for some reason.

They attended opposite training and vigil sessions, purposefully stood as far apart as possible during choir, and claimed separate places to eat at mealtime. Neither spent their leisure time relaxing in their room anymore. Instead, occupying themselves with studying in far-flung corners of the library. Sometimes, in Cullen’s case, receiving additional one-on-one training with the Knights. 

It didn’t take long for the general opinion of the blonde boy to change throughout the ranks. He continuously surprised his trainers with his proficiency in hand to hand combat and various weapon techniques. It was obvious Cullen was a natural warrior, and his strategic assessment of his opponents on the pitch revealed the calculating mind of a general. The Knights recognized he was a born leader and knew eventually the boy would surpass all of the recruits. There would be none among them to stand as his equal. 

The Knights chose him more often for demonstrations and paired him with weaker opponents to allow him to mentor those who needed extra practice. Cullen’s patient yet firm technique kept him approachable, and he never ridiculed anyone for struggling, having suffered the same when he first joined. Instead, he praised the smallest successes to prevent discouragement – the same way his one-time mentor had with him.

Of course, his sudden rise in popularity wasn’t without conflict. There were suggestive comments about the nature of his relationship with Alistair. And lately, murmurs of ‘pretty boy’ trailed whenever he passed, especially in the baths, which made him uncomfortable. To combat the issue he began keeping his hair shorter. It served a two-fold purpose: to keep his curls from falling in his line of sight when he sparred, and reduce the leers shot his way. Now, his blonde tresses curled softly along his scalp. Cullen was grateful he did not suffer the same tight coils as both his sisters, which would have made the shorter style very unflattering. 

The recruits still pressed him for information about Alistair’s father, knowing that if anyone were to know his true identity, it would be the bastard’s former best friend. Despite their falling out, he refused to betray his confidence and adamantly rebuffed all attempts from the others to speak about it. Taking Alistair’s advice to heart, Cullen smothered the urge to pound them all into the ground. 

Shaking his head irritably, he shoved aside his pain at the thought of the laughing boy with auburn hair. Pretending it didn’t hurt. He didn’t miss him, and he absolutely didn't cry in the dark at the hollowness his absence left behind. Willfully ignoring that he had fallen hopelessly for the boy who would never reciprocate his feelings. 

Everything was fine. 

Breathing deeply for a few seconds, he managed to rein in the urge to slam his fist into the nearby training dummy. 

Cullen startled to hear footsteps behind him. A beefy boy with chin-length black hair and an imperfectly healed broken nose blocked his exit from the now empty training room and he mentally sighed. _What a brilliant way to ruin my day._

“Cullen.” 

The blonde nodded, barely maintaining a neutral expression. His aggravation mounted as the boy continued to hover while he organized the various bits of armor and weaponry strewn about the training room following his last individual mentor session. Blowing out a sharp breath, Cullen replied sardonically. 

“Derek. How can I help you?”

The larger boy smirked and dread settled in his gut as the other youth fully entered the room. “You’ve improved since joining. I just wanted to congratulate you on doing so well. It was impressive watching you send Rupert ass over teakettle the other day.”

“Thank you. I have been working on my form,” he answered stiffly. 

Cullen’s eyes narrowed as Derek appraised him from his periphery, rocking nonchalantly on his heels as though considering his answer. The blonde wasn’t fooled. Glancing behind the older boy, he noticed the five other recruits slinking into the chamber, all part of Derek’s crew and fanning throughout the room.

_Shit._

Setting the helmet in his hands aside, Cullen pulled himself up to his full height, glaring hard at the ringleader. “What do you want, Derek? A fight? With your _friends_ to back you up?”

Pale green orbs flashed as the older recruit snarled, “I can take you without help.”

Cullen smiled and tilted his head. “Your nose says otherwise. In fact, wasn’t I the one who broke it with a move you should have countered last month? Still sore? Is that what this is about?”

The dark-haired boy rapidly closed the distance between them and squared his shoulders, but Cullen stood his ground. He might be shy with people, but he was no shrinking violet on the field. 

Derek’s lip curled as he chuckled, dropping his voice to a hushed murmur. “Looks like you and lover boy had a falling out. His loss, really. See, I like my boys with spirit – even if you did break my nose, you earned my respect.” 

The older boy’s gaze raked along his body appreciatively and Cullen suppressed a shiver. “It doesn’t hurt that you’re the best-looking guy here. Come on, stop pining for the bastard. He doesn’t want you and there are plenty of others that do.”

Cullen’s head jerked as though he’d been slapped, shocked by the audacity of his tormentor, who now sought to worm his way into his bed. 

“You’ve got to be joking! You harassed us both for months when we weren’t even sleeping together and now you want the same thing with me that you slandered us with? Have you lost your damn mind?”

Derek shoved him and sent him stumbling into the armor stand along the far wall. His feet hadn’t been planted since he hadn’t expected his aggressor to react so suddenly. Cullen glared at the older boy as he righted himself, angrily straightening his tunic, his blood boiling with adrenaline and disgust at the boy’s proposition. The others scattered throughout the room tittered as Derek sauntered over with a dark glint in his eyes.

“You expect me to believe that the two of you weren’t fucking, Cullen? None of us are blind. It was obvious to everyone. The two of you never went anywhere without each other. Sneaking off for hours during free time, coming back sweaty and flushed, all smiles when you disappeared into the baths to wash off the smell of sex.”

The blonde shook his head in astonishment, trying to control his blush at the picture the boy painted. “Shit… you were _jealous!_ This whole damn time... you were envious of the mere _idea_ that we were together! I can’t believe this.” 

He lost his best friend to their gossip mongering and jealous whispers. Cullen was so pissed his vision flared red and he spouted off without thinking. 

“So what is this, then, Derek? Is this how you acquire your lovers? With intimidation and a crowd of bullies to back you up when they tell you they aren't interested in what you have to offer? Which isn't much from what I've seen in the baths.” 

Cullen smirked cruelly, purposefully striking where he knew it would do the most damage. He lost Alistair, the boy he was secretly mad about, to jackasses like Derek and he was tired of squashing his desire to pummel his tormentors. 

Derek closed in and he readied himself for a fight. Cullen knew his style: lightning fast, despite his bulk, but cocky, usually starting his fights with the same strike. As predicted, Derek’s right fist shot out, but Cullen threw up his left arm and blocked the punch with his forearm. Immediately following through, the blonde jerked out with his right, slamming his flattened hand against his opponent’s windpipe. Derek clutched his throat as he gasped and Cullen shoved him forcefully into the center of the room, but his backup pressed close, preventing the younger boy from landing another hit on him. 

“What a racket you’re making in here. You know, one would think there was ungentlemanly behavior taking place, but that can’t be right, can it?” 

Cullen’s heart thundered in spite of himself as Alistair mysteriously appeared, casually leaning on the wall beside the door. The auburn-haired boy idly tossed a thin throwing dagger he nicked from the nearby arms chest. 

Derek sucked in a strangled gasp, peering hard at Cullen. “No… o-of course not.” He coughed, shaking his head in warning to his followers, and the younger boy relaxed. Even Derek wasn’t stupid enough to face off the pair of them.

Alistair’s smile was cold and sharp. “Oh, good! I didn’t think you would be idiotic enough to challenge the same recruit who broke your nose last month. I mean, _clearly_ , he’s more capable with this whole fighting thing than you are.”

The blonde’s chest exploded with warmth to hear Alistair praise him so highly, but it stung too, as his former friend avoided eye contact with him. The self-conscious part of him doubted the sincerity of his words, believing his roommate stepped in to help him save face. Yet he knew Alistair would never pay lip service to anyone, including him. For a brief moment in time, things were almost like they used to be and Cullen basked in the glow of familiarity.

With a flick so quick Cullen missed the movement, Alistair released the knife. It embedded neatly in the grout of the stones, directly in between Derek’s feet, narrowly missing a vital part of his anatomy. Shoving off the wall with alacrity, Alistair’s long arm snatched the dark-haired youth by his shirt and shook him hard, his hazel eyes flashing dangerously while he growled.

“This ends now, do you understand me? You want to know who my father is? He sits on the throne in Denerim and I’ve been thrown in here with you pricks. But just because I’m a bastard, doesn’t make me an idiot. The next person who gets their knickers in a twist over who is fucking me is welcome to ask. Let me clear the air for you, first, though – you’re just not my type, Derek. Sorry.” 

Jerking him around towards the door, Alistair released him with a snarl. “Now, get the fuck out before I knock your blasted teeth out of your thick skull.” Derek stormed out with a thunderous scowl, his friends filing out behind him, leaving them alone. 

Unable to face his roommate, Cullen yanked out the blade skewered in the cleft of the flagstones and rubbed his thumb along the hilt with a wry chuckle. 

“Nice throw,” he murmured in the deafening silence, gratified to hear Alistair snort. Glancing up he caught the older boy’s gaze and a shadow of… _something_ in his burnished depths.

Clearing his throat, Alistair shuffled his weight with a shy smile. “I’ve been practicing.”

“So it would seem.” 

Cullen passed the knife hilt first to him with his eyebrow cocked. A challenge. Alistair’s smile broadened as he carefully took the blade. With a quick glance to gauge the distance to the training dummy he let it fly. The dummy rocked on its wooden base from the force of the throw, the dagger buried dead center where a man’s face would be. 

The older boy preened, inordinately pleased with himself, as the blonde laughed in amazement. “You have to teach me how to do that!”

Alistair chuckled, eyes sparkling with mirth, as he faced Cullen. “And let you be the best at everything? Nah, I think I’ll keep this little trick to myself,” he teased. 

They fell into their old banter like a second skin. As automatic as breathing, requiring no thought or effort to maintain. Alistair hoped this meant it was possible to bridge the gap between them. The last few weeks had been agonizing and now, standing close to Cullen again, near enough to touch, his pulse raced. 

Sweeping his arm around the room, the blonde started, “You didn’t have to -”

Holding up a hand, Alistair interrupted with a harsh whisper. “I know I didn’t, Cullen. You could have taken all of them without batting an eye. I stepped in because…” He raked an unsteady hand roughly through his short hair. “We need to talk, but not here. Too many ears.”

Cullen mouthed ‘tower’ and Alistair nodded. The older boy left first while Cullen scrambled to put the training room to rights before ducking into the servant’s hallway. When he reached the tower, a hand was ready to pull him inside the chamber, reminding him of the first time he visited. 

Dusting his hands on his breeches nervously, Alistair straightened and their gazes locked. Crossing his arms over his chest, the auburn-haired boy started to speak, and then halted. There was so much he wanted to say, yet he knew that his friend wouldn’t want to hear what truly weighed heavy on his heart. After the third false start, Cullen scooted closer and cleared his throat. 

“I think last time we were here, Alistair… you spoke the most. Let me start this time.” 

Wincing with shame, the older boy nodded in concession, a pinched expression gracing his noble features. Scuffing the toe of his boot uncertainly along the stone, Cullen gathered his thoughts, organizing them before he spoke. 

“We both hurt each other and it was stupid. I’m sorry for shutting you out for the last couple of months. I’m sorry we never talked… after that day.” Swallowing hard, the blonde continued, a frown tugging the corners of his lips downward. “And I know why you think you _had_ to, Alistair. I’m aware the… rumors about _us_ made you uncomfortable… and I’m sorry that I made them worse with my actions.”

Confusion settled across the older boy’s face, and he dropped his arms in disbelief, sputtering in surprise. “Wait, what? You thought I was - I don’t know… _put off_ by the gossip of you and I together?”

It was Cullen’s turn to stare owlishly at him, blinking slowly several times as he processed Alistair’s response. “Well… yes. I’ve seen you flirt shamelessly with the kitchen maids and the village girls. I know a relationship with a man beyond friendship wouldn’t interest you.”

Alistair’s eyes widened as pieces started to fall into place in his mind. He observed Cullen’s reactions, paying attention to things he should have noticed sooner. The subtle parting of the blonde’s lips every time he looked at him. The rapid rise and fall of his broad chest as his breathing increased whenever they were alone. The way he angled his body towards him, open and inviting. 

The warrior recalled the lingering touches during their one-on-one training, the brushes of fingers while playing chess in the solitude of their room, not all of which were instigated by him. The younger boy’s willingness to share a bed; though they started the night as friends seeking comfort, the way the pair woke in the morning, wrapped in each other, hinted at a different conclusion.

 _Maker’s fucking breath. We’re the biggest idiots of the Age._

Finding his voice at last, Alistair’s full lips drew into a smirk as he smoothly replied. “A relationship with a man… or with you, Cullen?”

Cullen straightened to his full height, peering warily at him, and licked his lips before croaking. “What are you saying?”

Striding towards him on long legs, the older boy chuckled at the irony. “I’m _saying_ , we have been idiots. I ended our friendship to spare your reputation. To keep the other recruits from assuming things about you when they already assume so much, because you dare to associate with me. And... because _I_ didn't think you could ever want _me_.”

Pausing in front of him, Alistair’s own breathing increased at his proximity to the boy with soulful amber eyes and flaxen hair. Reaching out hesitantly, he threaded his fingers through Cullen’s short curls, a blissful sigh escaping him at the simple intimacy. Alistair’s mouth dried as the other boy’s lids fluttered and he leaned into the touch with a small whimper, amazed to discover he was not the only one who dreamed of his fingers carding through curled tresses.

Alistair’s heart skipped multiple beats when the blonde opened his eyes, pupils blown wide with desire. The older boy’s voice dropped a full register when he spoke again. 

“That was obviously a mistake, Cullen. If I had only told you months ago how I felt, I would have done this much sooner.” 

Strong fingers accustomed to gripping a sword became tender, resting on the nape of Cullen’s neck, gently pulling him forward to meet him halfway. Their lips touched, a chaste brush, but it was enough to _know_. The heart Cullen long gave away, returned to him, pounding triumphantly in his chest. Alistair’s slammed against his ribs in answering cadence as they stared at one another – _stunned_.

In unison, their lips met again, moving too quickly as they tried to make up for lost time. Words unspoken no longer needed, their touch and fervency saying more than words could convey. Cullen’s arms wrapped around his back, clutching the fabric of his tunic, and he followed the older boy’s lead as they crossed the tower backwards. Once he hit a wall, Alistair pressed flush against him and both boys groaned – low, deep, hungry. 

_This_ was better than he ever dreamed. Wrapped in Alistair’s embrace, the feel of him, strong and hard. Yet tender and sweet, cradling him as though he was a fragile, precious gift. His _smell,_ musk and sunlight, lingering on his own skin from contact. Lips soft and full against his own, adopting a rhythm with ease, the taste of cinnamon on his tongue. There was an internal shift, a click of the perfect key fitting the lock, connecting, _bonding._ In that moment, Cullen knew he was irrevocably his.

Alistair felt weightless, his soul weaving patterns only it understood as it soared, tangling their heartstrings together. A faint whiff of earth after a rainstorm, _his scent,_ sent his pulse racing. He felt the tremble of Cullen’s hands, mimicking the tremulous flutter that jangled along his own nerves. But the older boy held fast, determined to not let him fall, to never fail him again, because this – _this_ was better than any imagined happiness he conjured in his mind. This was the moment he knew he found his _home_. He didn’t deserve him, but Maker, he would damn sure try to be worthy from now on.

Hands once static took on a life of their own, slipping under fabric, desperate for the whisper of soft skin under warrior’s palms. Dancing along taut muscles, they reveled in the headiness of touching each other in ways they never thought they could. Alistair’s fingers brushed Cullen’s nipples, arching the blonde out of the embrace with a hiss as he raked his blunt nails across the other boy’s back. Moaning in response, he dropped his head to the younger boy’s shoulder.

“Maker’s breath,” Alistair panted. “Why… did we wait so long?” 

Cullen chuckled in a daze above him. “I h-have no idea.” 

Weaving his fingers sweetly through his short hair, the blonde murmured in his ear. “I didn’t know how I felt about you until that day. After you left… that was when I realized how much you meant to me. I assumed you didn’t see men that way and didn’t want me to get the wrong idea about our friendship.”

Raising his head, Alistair held his forlorn gaze and sighed, cupping his cheek with his left hand. “I-I was a coward. I said it was to protect you, but it was really to protect _me._ I didn’t know how much longer I could act like you were nothing more than my friend. So, I put as much distance between us as I could. I’m so sorry, Cullen.”

Resting their foreheads together, the boys hummed in contentment, fingers entwined as they shared enamored smiles. Cullen chuckled, lightly bumping their noses together. “I’ll forgive you, on one condition.”

Grinning broadly now, Alistair squeezed his hands with enthusiasm as he promised. “Anything. Name it and it's yours.”

The younger boy’s bronze gaze gleamed in the evening light. “No more self-sacrificing bullshit. I _missed_ you, Alistair. Going through the motions without you is like losing a limb. Whatever we are now, you’ll always be my best friend, and I… I _need_ you.”

Capturing the blonde’s swollen lips, Alistair whispered between kisses. “I swear… on the Maker… on Andraste’s… flaming sword… never again. I missed you… so damn much.” Cullen’s shoulders shook with laughter under the onslaught of promises, drawn out by ardent caresses. 

Leaning out of their embrace, Alistair murmured shyly, “You know, you weren’t wrong.” 

Cullen frowned, tilting his head in a manner the older boy always found adorable. Smiling, Alistair drew lazy circles on the blonde’s knuckles with his thumb. 

“I’m not… _usually_ attracted to men. I’m still not… well, not enough for a relationship with any of the others here. I’m only interested in _you,_ Cullen,” he breathed.

Inhaling sharply, Cullen nodding slowly in understanding, the tip of his tongue darting along his lips. He peered at the other boy under golden lashes, thrilled by the darkening of those hazel eyes when he whispered. “It’s the same for me. Before you, I’d never considered… but now, I don’t want anyone else. I only want you.”

“Cullen –”

“Alistair –”

Names sighed in hushed reverence gave way to deeper kisses, interspersed with heady moans and mumbled praises. It culminated in Cullen yanking him close, rocking his obvious excitement along the older boy’s thigh. The blonde smirked at the broken groan that tumbled from Alistair’s handsome mouth. 

They ran out of time to explore further as the dinner bell reverberated through the stone walls. Swearing colorfully in frustration, they shared a parting kiss and separated reluctantly, before dropping through the exit to the stairs below. Once the tower was sealed, the boys stole through the shadows, hands clasped and spirits light as they attempted to stamp down their bubbles of giddy laughter. Releasing their hold on each other with a final heated glance, the pair nonchalantly rejoined the other recruits filing into the dining hall.

Cullen quirked an eyebrow in question and Alistair smiled in answer. Together they reclaimed their old seats at the corner bench in the back of the hall. Gossip erupted around them, but they shrugged in unison and ignored their fellows as they usually did, talking and laughing throughout dinner as though they’d never spent a day apart. Their knees touched under the privacy of the table, but the boys were mindful to keep the rest of their body language platonic. 

After the meal, they swung by the library to grab the chessboard, talking animatedly about the new footwork techniques the Knights had the recruits working on in training. Alistair grinned to see the eye rolls they garnered, pleased that everyone was oblivious to the new facet of their relationship. Despite their constant prattling, it seemed some doubted the two of them capable of romantic advances. 

Entering their room calmly, Alistair shut the door with a quiet click. Cullen deposited the board unceremoniously on his bed and the older boy was very grateful for the wooden barrier to prop him up as his knees turned to jelly under the blonde’s fiery gaze. The tension was smothering. Wrapped tight and close like a thick blanket, dulling all the distractions of the abbey, narrowing their focus to one another. 

This time, Cullen closed the gap between them. Alistair swallowed hard when the boy halted inches from his quaking frame. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he whispered kindly.

Blushing furiously, Alistair pressed a finger to the blonde’s lips, gusting out an unsteady breath. “I know that. But I want to… Maker, Cullen! I can barely keep my hands off you!” The older boy hissed in embarrassment and Cullen’s creamy skin flushed a deep shade of red. 

Pursing his lips around Alistair’s finger in a sweet kiss, he moved it aside so he could speak. “What – what if, we took turns cooling off in the baths? Afterwards, we can figure out if we want to… do anything.”

The auburn-haired boy shot him a soft smile, his hazel depths warm with affection. “Alright. One thing though – you sleep with me. Even if… if all we do _is..._ sleep,” he stammered. 

Rolling his eyes teasingly, Cullen murmured, “As if I would choose to sleep without you ever again.”

“Fair point,” Alistair sniggered. “But you know, you could have. And if you ever want to sleep alone all you have to do is say so –”

Cullen ceased his rambling with a kiss and Alistair whimpered, allowing himself to be devoured. When the blonde’s tongue demanded entry, he was even more grateful for the ironclad grip of the boy’s arms supporting him as he melted. The younger boy growled his approval when the taller boy’s legs gave out, pride and devotion swelling his chest until he thought he might explode. It was a heady sensation – the knowledge that he could make a warrior of Alistair’s caliber weak. 

They ended the embrace with difficulty. He snickered to see Alistair collapse on his bed, flushed and unable to meet his eyes. Waving him to go first, the older boy tossed an arm over his face in an effort to hide. Cullen knew he was embarrassed by his reaction, but he found it ridiculously attractive. With a hushed promise to return soon, the blonde left and headed towards the bathing room. 

Choosing the less crowded pool, he washed quickly and efficiently, trying to keep his mind purposefully blank to prevent any awkward moments while nude with his fellows. Which was difficult in his present state of mind since his thoughts kept drifting to the handsome warrior sprawled on his bed with kiss-swollen lips waiting for him to return. Cullen couldn't help wondering what might happen later. He knew what he _hoped_ for, but he wasn't sure what Alistair would be comfortable with. 

Shaking his head forcefully to halt his overactive imagination, he hopped out. Once dried off, he wrapped a towel around his waist, raking a hand through his shortened curls and flinging drops of water wherever he walked. Striding with confidence through the hallway, he entered their chamber and shut the door, startling Alistair who was still splayed on his bed.

“Your turn,” he stated casually, unable to suppress his smug grin. Alistair rolled his eyes to the ceiling in silent petition to the Maker and Cullen snorted. A pillow hit the side of his face and he roared with laughter, accidentally loosening his hold on the cotton wrap.

The air in the small room crackled with electricity. Alistair leapt from the bed to cup Cullen’s face between sword roughened hands and kissed him with a passion so fierce in its sincerity that it stole the blonde’s breath. One arm slipped hesitantly around his damp skin, a large hand lightly resting in the curve of his spine, while Alistair’s lips traveled to his ear. 

“Do you trust me?”

Cullen nodded and replied in a low timbre, “And do you trust me?” The arm holding him tightened.

Alistair exhaled raggedly, “With my life.”

Clutching the towel with one hand, Cullen raised his other, running it through Alistair’s soft hair. “What do you want?”

“Whatever you’ll give…” Head nestled in the crook of Cullen’s neck, the older boy’s voice cracked with the weight of his desire. “And whatever you want from me.”

Nudging his face with his nose, he smiled when Alistair lifted his head and met his eyes. 

“I want everything,” Cullen breathed. 

Uncurling his fingers, he released the towel, and Alistair gasped. By some miracle of Andraste he managed to keep his gaze _up._ Living in a community of boys, they all saw more of each other than they might have outside of the abbey, but he always tried to respect Cullen’s privacy and not ogle him. Now, he was willingly bare, _in his arms_ , and he needed a moment for his brain to catalog this was reality, not a fantasy.

Cullen’s perfect brow furrowed in concern for him and Alistair’s chest constricted at the boy’s constant attention to his emotional state. “I’m okay,” he managed to stammer. “I-I just need a minute to reassure myself this is real.” 

Features relaxing, the blonde smiled and a tint of pink graced his cheeks as he acknowledged the need to do the same. Cool fingers slid under his tunic, carefully rolling up the hem, and with a surge of confidence Alistair grabbed the rough fabric and yanked it over his head. 

Stumbling backwards towards the bed, they quickly slipped under the sheets, where Alistair shyly wriggled out of his breeches and tossed them into some far corner.

Reaching nervously for him, Alistair ghosted a trembling hand across his chest, trailing along his side in a loop, focusing on small details. Tracing his pectorals caused Cullen to bite his lip, touching his ribs too lightly made him squirm, skirting his hip bone left him breathless with anticipation. 

Closing the gap between them, Cullen’s hands danced along his body, excitement building when Alistair hissed as his fingers brushed his nipples and played with the smattering of hair dotting his chest. It intrigued him to discover that they shared similar responses, bolstering his confidence to learn that satisfying each other would not be as intimidating as he feared. Questing lower, Cullen felt the boy’s abs tense. He paused, but Alistair’s hand covered his, urging him to continue while their lips crashed together again.

They both gasped at the contact and he smirked when Alistair swore magnificently as he explored. Rocking along him, Cullen whined impatiently and Alistair returned the favor, marveling at how it felt familiar, yet different, at the same time. There was nothing resembling rhythm between them, having spent the last two hours with adrenaline raging through their bodies, but this wasn’t about finesse. This was about raw, primal _need_ that flared white hot in their veins, edged with something gentler, that they both hesitated to breathe into existence.

Unspoken, perhaps, but not unnoticed. Aside from the obvious physical pleasure overwhelming their senses, the delicate flutter of gossamer wings beat in time with their racing hearts as they chased their end, shattering into brilliant light behind clenched eyelids, their cries as they crested muffled by swollen lips. 

Trembling with aftershocks, amber and hazel locked in the sliver of moonlight, wonder etched on their faces. Alistair’s chest ached the longer he stared at the blonde.

There was so much he wanted to say to the boy in his bed. The boy who swore to be his friend and defender. The boy he harbored feelings for almost as long as he’d known him.

Once his breathing slowed, Alistair rolled to hover over him, drinking in his blissful smile and flushed cheeks, carding his fingers through Cullen’s mesmerizing curls. 

“Maker’s breath, but you’re beautiful,” he breathed reverently. 

Smiling wider, Cullen shook his head on the pillow with a gentle laugh. “I always hoped I was handsome, myself.” Blushing, the boy above him opened his mouth to correct his error, but the blonde pressed a finger to his full lips, whispering. “But I like hearing _you_ tell me that I am beautiful… because I think the same about you, Alistair.” 

Affection shone from the older boy’s eyes suffusing him with a warmth that even physical release could not match. Cullen’s heart pounded in his chest when the lips he was fast becoming addicted to descended sweetly on his in reply. Wrapping his arms around the older boy, he eased him gently down, pressing them flush together as they kissed. They both moaned as Alistair’s weight settled over him, feeling all of each other against bare skin for the first time.

Full lips blazed a trail to his neck where the auburn-haired boy buried his face against his shoulder. Alistair’s breath caressed his skin and the younger boy felt his breathing hitch under his palms. Stroking calloused fingers along his golden back, he smiled at the boy’s pleasant hum.

“What’s on your mind, Alistair?”

The warrior huffed quietly in the crook of his neck. “Damn it, Cullen. Do you have to know me so well? I might as well be transparent.”

Chuckling, the blonde murmured in his ear. “You _are_ transparent to me.” He shrugged slightly, enjoying the roll of Alistair’s body along his own with the movement. “But I suppose it’s only fair, since you read me just as easily. So, are you going to talk to me?”

Grumbling petulantly, Alistair raised his head and the younger boy smothered a grin at his lover’s antics. “I just…” The older boy paused and swallowed hard, his next words a hissed whisper. “Is this real? Did I fall down and hit my head? Because if this is a concussion, please don’t wake me up.” 

Feeling wicked, Cullen pinched the other boy’s side, grinning at his yelp and the half-hearted glare he shot him. “What? I just proved you aren’t dreaming,” he teased.

“Okay, just for that, I’m getting up,” Alistair stated, starting to lift his torso.

The blonde locked his legs around the older boy and held him in place. “Don’t you dare. I quite like you where you are.”

Cocking an eyebrow, the warrior gazed at him skeptically. “I’m squishing you. How can you breathe?”

“I’m perfectly fine. Unless you _want_ to get up, then by all means –” Relaxing his hold slightly, Cullen stared at him with feigned innocence.

Alistair fell back to his original position and clung tight to the other boy. “No, no, no! Bluff called! Damn, you saw right through me,” came the muffled reply from Cullen’s neck.

Resuming his light graze along the older boy’s back, tracing the lines of muscles already well defined and dotted with freckles, they lay in contented silence. Without realizing it, their breathing synchronized as they melted together, chests rising and falling as one, soft puffs of air grazing each other’s skin. 

The whispered words the blonde so hated swirled in his mind in the dark. His own fears and insecurities about this new part of their relationship filling him with momentary doubt. Unwilling to ruin the moment, but knowing he had questions that demanded answers, Cullen’s quiet whisper broke the tranquility.

“Returning to your original statement of ‘is this real?’ I feel the same way, Alistair. I wonder if things will change when the sun rises. Will we pretend this never happened? Or will I be the ‘pretty boy’ you bed on occasion?”

Alistair jerked his head up sharply at that, his face creased with concern at the tears in Cullen’s eyes. Pressing their foreheads together, the older boy stared intently at him, his gaze earnest and sincere. 

“Never, Cullen. I could never pretend this didn’t happen. Not when I’ve been _dreaming_ of this for months and you will never, _ever_ be… _that_ to me. You are handsome, without question, but that is not _all_ you are and that is not all I see.” He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “I hoped you hadn’t heard what the assholes were saying about you.”

Nodding, the younger boy blinked away his tears and murmured. “That’s why you showed up today. In the training room, isn’t it?” 

Alistair slumped in his hold and gave a dejected nod. “I’ve been keeping my ear to the ground, because no one pays attention to me. They talk freely, and I listen, so I knew the gossip. I-I’ve shadowed you a few times when I thought the more brazen guys would try to corner you.” 

The older boy’s eyes filled with tears, his strong body quaking under Cullen’s hands. “Maker, I _wanted_ to tell you, but after the tower… I didn’t know how to speak to you without shoving my foot in my mouth. And I wasn’t sure if you knew. I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me –”

Cupping a hand around his neck, Cullen angled his lover’s head and pulled him in for a kiss. He felt the damp of Alistair’s tears on his cheeks and his chest tightened with affection for the young warrior in his arms. 

Even in their separation, they continued to protect each other, without the other’s knowledge. Always jumping to the other’s defense as they swore so many months ago. It seemed some oaths were impossible to cast aside. 

An image came to mind. A secret he’d been holding onto, unsure for awhile if he would have the chance to share it. Now the younger boy knew he didn’t have to worry. Nor did he want to wait. 

Cullen leaned out of the embrace with a smile. “I have something for you,” he murmured. 

The auburn-haired boy surveyed him with curiosity, whining when he was forced to make good on his earlier bluff and roll over, so the blonde could scramble out of the bed. Snatching the discarded towel, he cleaned up as best as he could with a soft chuckle and tossed it to Alistair while he opened a dresser drawer and rifled through it. With a quiet exclamation of triumph, Cullen returned to the bed, hiding something behind his back.

Chucking the soiled towel, Alistair sat up expectantly, the younger boy’s excitement bleeding into him. He didn’t think he’d done anything of late deserving of a surprise and he wondered how long Cullen had stashed it away. The thought both warmed and saddened him. What if he meant to give it to him sooner and he ruined the moment ending their friendship? 

Shoving the thought aside, he focused on the blonde who turned to face him with a large grin.

“I know your birthday is still a few days away, but I’ve had this for a while and I don’t think I can wait six days to give it to you.” 

A weight of guilt left Alistair’s chest to hear that he hadn’t ruined an opportunity, but he blushed to be reminded of his birthday. A day that no one had ever celebrated before. A day that served as a reminder he was unwanted.

“Cullen, you didn’t have to get me anything –”

The blonde bounced excitedly. “I know I didn’t. I _wanted_ to! Like I said, I’ve had this for a while. Since Satinalia, actually, when the Mother gave us leave to go to the village for the celebration.”

Alistair stared in shock at the younger boy. “You’ve… had it for four months? You got it _specifically_ for me?” Cullen bit his lip nervously and nodded. Shaking his head in disbelief, the bronze warrior chuckled as a smile bloomed on his face. “When did you even have time to sneak away? You were with me all that night.”

Smirking wickedly, Cullen answered, “When you got roped into dancing.” Alistair groaned to be reminded of the ceaseless requests by the girls for dances. It had taken forever to beg their leave and escape. 

“Close your eyes,” Cullen murmured. Alistair did as he was bid, grinning like an idiot as he took his hand and slipped something into his cupped palm. It was warm from Cullen’s body heat, but he could tell by the weight it was metal. 

“Okay, open them,” the blonde whispered.

A gold ring with a flat face, etched with a symbol, similar to a signet ring. The symbol was intriguing – a triple spiral, drawn with a single unbroken line, connected in the center. An archaic sigil that Alistair recalled finding scratched into rocks and trees in the area by the peasants. 

“I know that you are interested in folklore and local traditions. The moment I saw it, I thought of you. I’m not even sure if it will fit but... I hope you like it,” Cullen stated anxiously. 

Alistair’s head was angled downward, hiding his elation from the boy at the thoughtfulness of the gift. For getting him a gift _at all,_ and secreting it away for four months. Sliding it onto his right thumb, a soft bubble of pleasant surprise passed his lips when he discovered it was a perfect fit. Lifting his gaze to Cullen, the blonde’s face lit up with joy at the ecstatic expression on his lover’s face.

Tackling the younger boy backwards onto the bed, Alistair laid claim to his lips, rocking his lower half along his thigh suggestively. Cullen pulled back with a smile, his blood already boiling with want for the handsome warrior. 

“Careful or we'll need that towel again.”

Grinding purposefully, Alistair’s gaze darkened, his heart skipping erratically at the blonde’s groan. “I was planning on it,” he promised in a low murmur. 

Bucking against the older boy as his questing hands dipped lower, Cullen gasped, “Good.” 

Breathy moans and heady sighs filled the chamber as lips and fingers danced across sweat-slicked skin, stealing the ability for rational thought and coherent sentences well into the night.


	6. Undertow

**Justinian 20, 9:25 Dragon** ****

Mid-summer was his favorite time of year. Everything was in bloom, bringing life to the world with riotous color, perfuming the air with the heady scent of flowers. And he was stuck inside, doomed to an entire afternoon of vigils and mindless recitations. He admired Cullen’s willingness and aptitude, he just couldn’t understand it, and he certainly didn’t enjoy it. 

Sighing heavily, Alistair trailed after his fellows, dragging his feet and allowing the gap between him and the crowd to grow. Cullen glanced back at him forlornly, recognizing that the other boy did not relish today’s exercise. Trying not to make an obvious show of how much he cared, the blonde smiled reassuringly and the older boy returned it with a sad one of his own. Tipping his head in gratitude to his lover, Alistair let him know he appreciated his concern.

Up the hall, a movement caught the older boy’s eye. A priest ran down the corridor, her robes pulled up to her ankles to allow better movement as she sprinted, a pinched expression on her face. The recruits halted in stunned amazement, parting along the walls to make room for her as she flew across the flagstones. Panting hard, she came to a sudden stop in front of Alistair, and brushed her mousy brown hair from her face. 

“Alistair, the Revered Mother… requests your presence in her office. Immediately.”

Frowning, he stepped forward, dipping his head towards her. “Sister Bridget, is everything all right? Have I done something wrong?”

Grabbing him by his sleeve, she dragged him in her wake. “Do not dawdle, lad! She is waiting for you.”

His wide eyes met Cullen’s equally round ones and he shrugged helplessly. She marched him up the hallway, through the vestibule and around the corner to the Revered Mother’s quarters. A stone settled in his gut as they neared her study. He’d only been here a couple times, his punishments normally meted out by the Sisters or the Knights, but he couldn’t recall a single time that entering her abode had been good.

The priest knocked on the Mother’s door, pushing it open at the crisp, “Enter.” 

“Your Reverence, Alistair is here as you requested,” Sister Bridget announced, waving irritably for him to follow her in the room. 

Taking a deep breath, he crossed the threshold into the humble office, and gave a short bow. The Revered Mother laid aside her quill and glanced at him before answering the priest. 

“Thank you, Sister. Please ensure we are not disturbed for any reason.”

Sister Bridget tossed him a sidelong gaze as she bowed. “Of course, Your Reverence.” 

The stone in his stomach became a boulder, and he swallowed a few times as his anxiety mounted. Once the door shut behind the Sister, the Mother waved her hand towards the chair in front of her desk. 

“Please, Alistair, have a seat. I assure you, you are not in any trouble.” 

On wobbly legs, he walked across the room and carefully eased his bulk onto the spindly chair. He regarded her lined features carefully, noting the tendrils of gray hair draped across her forehead, slipping from her elegant bun as though fingers snagged the strands in a nervous tic. She smiled softly, releasing a flurry of alarm bells in his head. The woman was always disappointed in him and had never been very good at hiding it.

Reaching for the pitcher on her desk, she poured them each a mug of watered wine. But he shook his head, licking his dry lips as she took a small sip. 

Finding his voice and weary of the melodrama, he croaked, “Revered Mother, why am I here?” 

Setting down her mug with a sigh, her blue eyes settled on him and her mouth thinned into a severe line. “I apologize for the urgency of this meeting, but I felt that you deserved to know what I have just learned.” 

The Revered Mother held aloft a piece of parchment with a broken seal. A letter, obviously of some import, if the corded tassels attached to the wax were any indication. His stomach rolled with trepidation, and a cold sweat broke out on his skin. 

Jerking his chin towards the document, he asked, “Wh-what does _that_ have to do with me?” 

Opening her mouth to speak, the older woman paused and cast her gaze to the ceiling. He could see she was steeling herself for whatever she would say. Strong fingers curled around the seat of his chair, clutching the wood until they were numb.

“I am… so very sorry to be the one to say this, Alistair. I have been informed by Arl Eamon’s seneschal that the King… was lost at sea.” 

Alistair pitched forward, his entire body suddenly dead weight. His right hand shot out automatically to grasp the desk and prevent his head from slamming against it. Gulping hard, he tried to calm his mind, to slow his racing heart, but it proved impossible. The news left him reeling in the small chair, unable to do anything except flounder in disbelief.

No, no, no! It had to be a mistake. Surely, it was an error. King Maric, the Savior of Ferelden, couldn’t be gone! He was supposed to rule into his infirmity, to die old and happy in his bed. Not swallowed up by the cold, cavernous maw of the ocean.

Raising his head, he stared at the woman who gazed at him with pity, as tears fell unbidden from his eyes. “Y-you are certain? There is no mistake?”

Shaking her head, she replied, “The Capital is certain.” 

Gasping raggedly, his head spun at the proclamation. Denerim confirmed the King dead. Long moments passed, possibly years – nothing felt real anymore – before he spoke again. 

“Wh-where was he headed?”

“Wycome. In the Free Marches. The Waking Sea is known for its tempests. There were no survivors aboard the King’s vessel.”

Swallowing hard, Alistair spoke through gritted teeth. “Did they… _recover_ him from the sea?”

Her face fell and he knew. Holy _fucking_ Maker, he _knew_ even without her hushed, “No.”

Nodding in a daze, he wheezed harshly through clenched teeth, his knuckles stark white against his golden skin. Focusing hard on the ring he hadn’t removed since Cullen gifted it to him, Alistair turned his thoughts to the boy with bright laughter and a noble heart. Without his grounding presence beside him, memories would have to do, or he would be stuck in the Revered Mother’s office all day trying to regain his equilibrium.

Pushing off the desk with a ragged breath, he snatched the mug the Mother offered him earlier and took a large swig. They sat in silence fraught with tension, but he appreciated that she allowed him to steer the conversation.

Clearing his throat, he asked, “Will you be making an announcement this evening, Revered Mother?”

Her chair creaked when she leaned against it and inclined her head. “If I do not, the others will only find out later when I can’t control the aftermath.”

Alistair’s shoulders sagged, and he nodded at the truth in her words as he sipped his wine. Placing the mug on the desk, he spun it idly with his fingers, unable to make eye contact for his next question. “Might – might I be excused from dinner in the hall this evening, Your Reverence?” 

The elderly woman inclined her head sagely. “Of course, my child. I will have a tray sent to your chamber. I am also excusing you from vigils and training for the remainder of the day. I shall inform the Knights once we conclude our audience.”

A fresh onslaught of tears cascaded across his chiseled features when he glanced at her, his voice cracking pathetically when he spoke. “Revered Mother, I know I didn’t… know him, so tell me why it hurts so much?”

Her blue eyes watered as she rose and moved around the desk to envelop him in a hug. “Oh, my boy. It hurts because he was your father and losing those we care about, whether or not we are close to them, is always tragic. It always feels senseless, though in time, it will hurt less. I know that is no comfort, but waiting is all that any of us can do. We are all at time’s mercy, Alistair.” 

A sob escaped him, raw and tortured, as an eddy of regret and anguish washed over him, threatening to drag him under the deep alongside the man who was both his King and his father. An indeterminate amount of time passed while he cried into the Mother’s robes. Cried for things he never had and answers to questions he would never get. Tenderly she rocked him, the way he imagined a kindly grandmother would comfort a small child. 

Eventually, his tears were spent and he wiped his face with a handkerchief she procured from her pocket. As he stood to leave, she laid a wizened hand on his arm, forced to look up at the youth that towered over her. 

“I am here for you, Alistair. If ever you need to discuss anything, to seek guidance or prayer, I am here. I do not dislike you, as you suppose,” she chided gently with a smile. “If I didn’t like you, do you think I would allow you and Cullen to constantly sneak off into the tower?”

Alistair’s eyes widened and he flushed deeply, but she patted his cheek affectionately. “You needed a place to hide, child. I would not take away your sole refuge when you were suffering. I am pleased that you and Cullen have struck such an accord. His friendship has been good for you and for him, as well.”

Clearing his throat awkwardly at just how good their friendship was, he queried, “Did you bunk him with me on purpose?”

Her smile widened, warmth evident in her gaze. “Yes. I hoped that he wouldn’t be like the other boys, that he might be someone you could confide in. I am glad that proved to be true.”

Taking his large hands in her paper-thin palms, she squeezed gently and Alistair smiled as his perception of the woman changed. He always assumed she hated him, but he realized she was merely maintaining a professional distance. Unable to show favoritism to any of the boys and acutely aware that such attention would have made Alistair’s position among the recruits worse. This entire time she’d been doing him a favor, but he was so used to rejection that he hadn’t been able to see it for anything else. It shamed him more deeply than he cared to admit. 

He owed the Revered Mother much. For putting up with his horrid attitude and giving him chance after chance whenever he got into trouble. For allowing him to keep his hideaways and sneak into the kitchen, because she surely knew about that, too. For bunking Cullen with him and giving him a friend who, in time, became something even more profound.

“Now,” her soothing voice broke the contemplative quiet. “I shall let you depart to spend the day however you wish. If you require extra time tomorrow, I will grant it.” 

Releasing him, the Revered Mother took a large step back, returning to the professional distance her station required between her charges. For the first time since coming to the abbey, Alistair did not feel slighted by it, now that he understood it for what it truly was. 

Bowing with a deference he actually felt, instead of a pantomimed genuflection, he offered a final word of parting. “Thank you, Your Reverence, for informing me of the… news and excusing me from my duties.” 

“May the Maker watch over you, my child,” she whispered, unable to keep the waver from her voice. Straightening, Alistair graced her with a sad smile before exiting her study. 

His feet carried him through the silent side passages to the mercifully empty training ring in the courtyard. Once there, he snatched a sword to work out his agitation. Alistair didn’t know if he was more heartbroken or furious at the audacity of the King to die or bitter at the Maker for allowing it. It was probably a healthy dose of all three. 

Working solely on muscle memory, he ran his body through the familiar steps: lunge, dodge, parry, block, strike, and the various counters to attacks. Angle low, aim high, feint, spin, kick, trip. Incorporating the sword twirls and hand switches the trainers declared showmanship for a change of pace. 

It was a dance. A dance that did not require thought. His mind was blessedly blank as he flit across the field solo.

Alone.

And for once, that was perfectly fine. The space, the silence, was glorious. The _swish_ of his blade rending the air and his controlled breathing were subtle enough that they were not distractions, but helped him keep the tempo as he twirled and rolled, battling invisible opponents.

Sweat beaded along his upper body and with a flourish he tossed aside his tunic and resumed his place in the choral. Leaping in the air, he tucked his legs as he spun, bringing down his sword on the return and landing effortlessly. Holding up the flat of his blade in a block, he dove across the field, popping into a backhanded slash without losing rhythm. Born and bred for war, from a long line of warriors and kings, his stamina was at its peak with muscles limber, his lungs powering his large frame without difficulty.

A crowd gathered at the windows lining the library, watching the resident pariah, the _bastard,_ weave a spell of intricate grace and power most had never seen from the young man. Cullen’s heart swelled with pride to hear the excited titters of the recruits and see the appraising glances of the Knights observing his magical finesse. He knew what Alistair was capable of. He’d seen it during their spars, but he didn’t apply himself when the others watched. A confidence issue, nothing more. Yet there he was, showing them all what a true warrior looked like – serenity in motion.

“How come he’s never like that when we practice?” asked a young recruit halfway across the room. Curious whispers sounded through them, and Cullen rolled his eyes.

“Because,” the blonde interrupted. Everyone halted and stared at him, but he never took his eyes off the golden warrior prince as a small smile curved his lips. “Because now… he is free.” 

Spinning on his heel, Cullen abruptly exited the room, uncaring that he stirred a flurry of gossip in his wake and headed straight for the courtyard. Alistair needed him. The boy he cared for only fought with such painful elegance when he shut down. While he could fool the rest of the world, he couldn’t fool him.

On silent feet he stole into the empty yard and snatched the nearest sword. Slipping unseen into the ring, Cullen’s blade met Alistair’s next block. The sound of steel on steel and the reverberation in his hand startled the older boy from his reverie. 

The blonde spoke quietly, a tender smile warming his face. “I thought you could use a dance partner.”

Uncrossing their blades, Alistair snorted. “You know I always dance when no one is watching.” 

Cullen didn’t have the heart to tell him the entire monastery _was_ watching, utterly entranced by his prowess and skill. 

“Maybe so, but I decided to cut in, anyway. So, are you up for a spin on the floor with me?” 

Alistair laughed at the boy’s continued use of the metaphor, well aware he was here to keep him from tumbling too far into his own head. To draw him out and keep him level. It didn’t hurt that his lover insisted they ‘dance’ together, though.

“Grab a shield, Cullen. I won’t fight you without one.” 

The blonde didn’t argue. It would be pointless to try, but he returned from the corner of the ring bearing two shields and passed him one wordlessly. Sliding them in place and buckling the straps tight, the young men straightened in unison, and circled one another.

Hours of private practice in their tower melded them into a well-oiled Dwarven machine. Every lunge blocked with ease, strikes parried with precision, shield bashes dodged. Most of those in the monastery assumed there were no warriors that were Cullen’s equal, but they were wrong. 

There was one.

Breaking the silence, since the pitch was empty, the blonde spoke as they fought. “Are you going to tell me what the Mother wanted to see you about?”

Alistair flashed him an easy smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes, slamming his sword against the other boy’s shield. “Oh, you know, she wanted my opinion on how to spruce up the décor in the vestibule. She overheard me complaining that it was looking a little shabby.”

Cullen deflected his next strike and his sarcasm, pushing him along the dirt with the force of the movement. “Really? You don’t seem the type to care for tapestries and vestments. And they don’t typically get you so worked up you feel the need to waltz.”

Winking, the older boy spun away from his shield bash, backhanding his forearm with the flat of his blade. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for good tailoring.”

Catching the crossbar of Alistair’s sword with the edge of his blade, the blonde yanked him close. “It’s a good thing I’m a sucker for you. But I will keep asking until you tell me.” 

Twisting his wrist, Cullen unhooked the guard, and they spun in opposite directions to gain distance on the field. Circling for a beat, their eyes were never still as they read every cue. The subtle tells of their body language, made easier to read since the boys knew each other like the back of their own hand.

Cullen’s feet pointed right, yet when he moved left in his feint, his sword met air. He barely wheeled in time to position his shield and halt Alistair’s lunge from his flank. Chuckling under their breath, faces separated by hammered metal, they locked gazes – intense and entreating.

The levity turned to ashes in the older warrior’s mouth.

Blowing out a ragged breath, Alistair croaked, “Maric is dead, Cullen. My… father is dead.”

Saying the words aloud sliced his tender heart anew, tilting the world on its axis. Only the glow of polished amber kept him upright and held him steady in his haze of mourning. Cullen’s expression crumpled, eyes welling with sympathetic tears to match those filling the heartbroken golden-brown opposite him. 

“Alistair, I’m so sorry,” he whispered. Stepping back, the auburn-haired boy shrugged, wearing a brittle smile that didn’t suit him. 

“I’ve always been the bastard, never the son. I’m not even sure… _why_ I-I care, but Maker take me, I do. It feels like… a void has filled my chest and taken what little I had in the way of family.”

The older warrior twirled his sword in agitation and Cullen used his distraction to cross blades with him. _“Fight_ me, Alistair. I am here and you can take it out on me. I will not break, but you might, if you don’t get this out.”

Shoving him back, the other boy shook his head fiercely with a frown. “No, I won’t. I won’t _use_ you like that.” 

Huffing in frustration, the blonde darted along the field, spinning behind his lover to smack him across the back with the flat of his blade. He needed to get Alistair riled up enough that he snapped the tenuous coil of rage entangled in his grief or it would fester and the older boy would explode. Cullen couldn’t risk the boy who didn’t recognize his own strength accidentally injuring a smart-mouthed recruit in a fit of uncontrolled fury or slamming his fist against a stone wall and ruining his ability to wield a sword. The latter being the most likely.

“I’m not asking you to use me. I’m telling you to let me help you,” Cullen implored.

Rounding on him, the older boy snarled, “You said you would let me fight my own battles.”

Slamming their shields together, the blonde growled in reply. “I know what I said, but this is not one of those battles you can expect to go to war alone and win!”

With a cry of rage, Alistair pushed him halfway across the field, and Cullen breathed a sigh of relief. Steel rang in the courtyard as they set rules aside and met each other blow for brutal blow. It wasn’t long until their bones vibrated with the continuous reverberation of metal in their grasp, teeth clanged together with every collision, echoes of their grunts and curses filling the space as they crashed furiously on the pitch. 

Alistair’s control was slipping, replaced by an urgent buzzing in his mind, reminiscent of an angry hive of bees discovering their home plundered of its riches and left destroyed. The warrior was so damned tired of rebuilding what the world seemed determined to steal from him.

“Why?! Why did he just throw me away? It would have been better if they drowned me at birth, rather than suffer a lifetime of being unwanted!” 

His sword smashed against Cullen’s shield in blind rage, adding emphasis to his pronouncement, and the blonde winced behind his guard to maintain his grip. Tensing his entire body, the younger boy dug in his heels, allowing Alistair to scream and flail above him. It didn’t matter how black and blue he was after this. All that mattered was making sure the lost, lonely son of the King walked away less broken in the end.

“You bastard!” 

CRASH! 

“You left me before I ever had the chance to confront you!” The sword edge raked with a horrific screech across the metal, bowing slightly under his raw power. “I deserved answers! To know why you sent me away! Noblemen acknowledge bastard sons all over this fucking country, but you forgot me!” 

Tears blurred the older boy’s vision, but his strikes were true even in anguish. The strength in his blows forced Cullen to take a knee and use both arms to brace himself against the onslaught of Alistair’s bitterness. Silent cries wracked the blonde in the wake of the auburn warrior’s confessions and his misplaced assumption that no one ever wanted him. 

That no one needed him. 

That no one loved him.

Maybe it wasn’t the person he so desperately craved affection from for fifteen years, but he was not, nor ever would be, unloved. 

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed behind him and Cullen swiveled his head, a fierce scowl visible through his torrent of tears. With an impatient wave to the Knights and recruits he indicated they needed to return inside. He’d forgotten they had an audience, one that didn’t need to hear Alistair’s tortured exclamations. When his wave became desperate, the Knights reluctantly ushered the youths inside the abbey, casting final worried glances between the young men even though they left them alone.

Cullen sighed in relief and clenched his jaw to ignore the stab of agony radiating through his shoulder. He would endure; for Alistair’s sake, he would endure the Void. He could handle this. 

“I never wanted the throne! Maker damn it, I was never a threat to Cailin!”

SLAM! 

Even under the dulled edge of the practice sword, the warrior’s swings were so powerful they continued to dent the metal shield acting as the only layer of protection between Cullen’s face and the weapon. The blonde ducked his head lower, praying his lover didn’t rip through the hammered bulwark.

“I JUST WANTED A FATHER! I WANTED A FAMILY!”

Utterly spent, Alistair’s knees buckled, sending him collapsing to the ground. His handsome features were mottled and swollen, his breathing quick and stilted as more sobs bubbled under the surface of his temporary calm. Spurred into action, Cullen loosened the straps of his shield with unsteady fingers. Finally free of the damnable weaponry, he reached between them and unloosed Alistair’s ties, tossing the shield aside with a pained grunt. Unfurling the boy’s white-knuckled grip on the hilt of his sword, the blonde flicked it across the field, far out of reach.

Grimacing at the movement, Cullen stretched out his arm and tapped the other boy on the cheek, bringing him back from where he retreated in his mind. Blinking away the disorientation left in the wake of his emotional explosion, Alistair listed like an unbalanced ship, but a strong pair of hands grasped his biceps to stabilize him. 

“Careful, Alistair,” Cullen murmured in the eerie silence. “I’m pretty sure you spent all of your energy for the rest of the year in a single afternoon.” 

Smiling wanly, the older boy bobbed his head in weak agreement. “I think… you may be right about that,” he intoned dryly.

Glancing at the horizon, the blonde noted the rapidly deteriorating light as the sun began its descent. 

“Do you think you can stand? We need to get inside while we can still see. Flailing around in the dark like this will only help our faces find the ground and I’m rather fond of my nose the way it is,” Cullen teased, trying to relieve the heaviness crackling with emotion around them.

A quiet chuckle tumbled from the bronze warrior. Rolling his shoulders experimentally, he nodded; his features pinching with the discovery of how tight his upper body was after his breakdown. 

“Yes, I think so.” Pushing off the ground easily, Alistair’s eyes widened when the blonde hissed in pain as he regained his footing.

“You’re hurt!” Calloused fingers fluttered along Cullen’s shoulder, finding the knotted muscle spasming uncontrollably under his gentle examination. “Maker’s breath, I did this to you,” Alistair muttered, guilt and disdain dripping with every word.

Glaring sharply at him under furrowed brows, the younger boy shook his head. “Don’t start. We are warriors, Alistair. Injury is in the job description.”

Scowling furiously, he retorted, “But not by my hand, Cullen!” Bells pealed in the twilight, interrupting their discourse, and Alistair sighed heavily. “You better go to dinner.”

“No.”

The auburn youth stared at him aghast. “You have to.” 

Crossing his arms despite the angry twinge in his left side, Cullen quirked an eyebrow, fixing his lover with a steady gaze. “No, I don’t.”

“The Revered Mother –“

“Will understand, I’m sure. She’s not unreasonable, Alistair. But if she doesn’t, I’ll take my punishment gladly.” Shrugging dismissively, he closed the small gap between them to whisper in a low tone, despite being alone. “I _chose_ you, remember? I will not go back on my oath now, of all days.” 

Cullen’s heart pounded in his chest, but he breathed deeply to slow his racing pulse, choking on things unsaid between them. Words not ready to be voiced. Words he feared would not be reciprocated. 

Alistair opened his mouth to protest and the younger boy snapped. “Stop. Please, don't argue with me. Don’t push me away.” 

Sighing in defeat, the older boy nodded, and they returned to the silent abbey. Cullen jerked his head toward the bathing room, knowing it would be deserted, and together they entered the steam-filled chamber. Choosing the pool farthest away from the door, Alistair helped the younger boy wriggle out of his tunic, suffocating under the weight of his self-loathing with every one of Cullen’s strangled whimpers. At least shucking their pants and toeing off their boots didn’t require much upper body finagling.

They groaned together upon entering the pool. The hot water washed over their battered bodies, instantly easing the tension from sore muscles and dulling the ache of bruises garnered from a fevered battle of wills. 

Settling along the edge of the pool, Cullen stretched out to allow the water to cover his shoulder and Alistair leaned his head against the cool lip of the stone. Unconsciously, his index finger rubbed across the face of the ring that lived permanently on his thumb. It had become a worry token of sorts and he caught himself gliding his finger along it anytime he needed reassurance. Whenever he needed a physical reminder of Cullen’s brightness, pulsing along his nerve endings, releasing a warmth rivaling the sun throughout his whole body. 

Glancing at the fair boy reclining at his side, devotion coursed through him. The boy who knew what he needed even before he did. The one who willingly withstood his physical aggression during his emotional meltdown. The boy who refused to abandon him, risking punishment for his sake. 

What had he done to deserve him? How had Cullen been able to forgive him? First, ending their friendship in the tower five months ago and now this? Maker, he was so glad he did, but he knew he wasn’t good enough for him.

Alistair lost count of all the times he almost breathed the words poised on his tongue, but he lacked the courage to set them free. There was no doubt how he felt, but he feared rejection. It was hard to hope when his whole life had been devoid of such a precious commodity. 

Sliding behind his lover, Alistair lathered the nearby soap and gently worked it through his short curls. The rumble of approval that fell from Cullen’s lips vibrated through his body, settling in the other boy’s chest behind him.

“That feels nice,” Cullen murmured. 

Alistair’s breath ghosted the shell of his ear when he replied. “It’s the least I can do after... our spar.” 

Tipping his head back, the blonde smiled, pointedly ignoring how Alistair struggled to phrase his breakdown. He knew residual guilt weighed heavily on the warrior for unintentionally hurting him. 

“I hope it helped. Do you feel better?” 

Cupping his hands, the older boy rinsed his lover’s hair, diligently redirecting any trails of water that attempted to reach those captivating amber eyes. Staring into them upside down, he murmured with a faint smile. 

“Yes, I do, actually. Although, I think that surprises me more than it does you.” 

The fair youth merely grinned and didn’t answer. Alistair snorted, tenderly circling the cords of the boy’s neck with his broad thumbs, gingerly working out the stiffness with gentle pressure. The blonde moaned appreciatively and his smile grew with each pleasant noise the younger boy made.

“Cullen –” 

The lids that fluttered shut under his touch, flew open at the longing in his voice, searing him with burnished copper. 

His courage fled. 

“Thank you... for everything,” he whispered. “I-I don’t know what I’d have done without you.” 

The boy in his grasp smiled again, his gaze tinged with disappointment. “You’re welcome, Alistair.” 

Sitting up, the blonde indicated they switch places. Alistair melted under calloused fingers turned sweet on his skin, reveling in the feel of them caressing his scalp and massaging his shoulders. He smiled when the younger warrior’s hands traced soapy patterns along his back, following the smattering of freckles, and sighed when soft lips brushed the tiny twin moles under his right shoulder blade. 

“We should get out before they excuse everyone from dinner,” Cullen mumbled against his damp skin.

Alistair nodded sadly, leaving the comfort of his embrace so they could finish washing up separately. Neither one quite ready to cross that line or unintentionally stir amorous desires. Clambering out of the pool with tired moans, they dried off and slunk to their room in their towels.

A tray with two plates and a pair of health potions awaited them. Sharing surprised glances, they downed the potions before even putting on cloth breeches. Cullen was never so grateful for elfroot, despite the bitter taste, as a blanket of healing warmth flooded his body, coalescing in his shoulder. Within minutes, their bruises receded and by the time they polished off their smoked pheasant, they were functional again. Only exhaustion remained. 

Alistair crawled into Cullen’s bed, sighing happily when his body molded into the dip in the ticking. Chuckling softly, the blonde snuffed the candle and crawled in alongside him. Alistair immediately curled against his chest, tangling their long legs together, as Cullen enveloped him in a hug.

Ensconced in the privacy of their room, safe and sheltered, cocooned from the harsh reality of the world, they laid in contemplative silence. Alistair listened to the steady beat of the other boy’s heart, melting in his embrace as lithe fingers played with his damp hair. 

Closing his eyes, Alistair recalled the events of the day. Andraste’s flaming sword, it felt like the last few hours spanned a lifetime, but despite his bone-weary exhaustion he needed to talk things out. Burying his face against his lover’s chest, he felt the blonde shiver as his stubble grazed his sensitive skin, and he made a note to tease him with it another night. 

“Cullen?” 

His voice was small and quiet and he briefly wondered if he’d spoken at all, because surely, he couldn’t sound that pathetic, right?

“I’m here,” the boy above him murmured. Alistair’s throat momentarily closed at the gentle reply from his lover and the realization that yes, he sounded that pitiful. 

Breathing into the hairsbreadth of space between them, the older boy dug deep for courage and whispered, “Maric was… lost at sea.”

Arms tightened reflexively around him, but the other boy did not interrupt, which he was grateful for. The struggle to share the whole story was hard enough, yet he feared if Cullen spoke too soon, he would lose his ability to speak at all.

“En route to Wycome, the King’s ship… w-was caught in a storm. All souls were lost.” Alistair’s breath hitched, and he snaked an arm around the blonde, desperately clinging to him as he choked. 

“He wasn’t… there is no b-b… _fuck._ There isn’t a body to burn, Cullen. He’s just… gone.” Throat officially closed, tears poured from heartbroken hazel eyes and ran in rivulets across the planes of his Cullen’s pale skin.

“Maker… Alistair, I’m so sorry. I-I wish I knew what to say to make this… easier for you.”

Swallowing hard, the auburn boy found his voice and whispered. “Y-you are. Just _being_ here and having your support helps. The idiotic stunt you pulled in the training ring helped.” 

The older boy growled against Cullen's salt-laced torso. Fear and guilt coursed through him when he recalled their time in the ring and the aftermath of his anger. 

“But don’t ever do anything like that again. I could have maimed or killed you… and I-I… _Swear_ it, Cullen. Swear that you won’t do something so terrifying again.”

The blonde shook his head sadly, whispering into the other boy’s short hair. “I can’t make that oath, because I would do literally _anything_ if I thought it would help you, Alistair. And I know you would do the same for me. I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear.”

Alistair’s shoulders sagged in defeat with a ragged exhale. “No, I know it's selfish, but there is a part of me that appreciates what you did. But I-I would never forgive myself if I hurt you and that’s what scares me the most. I lost control, Cullen. I forgot who I was fighting and if you were seriously injured… Maker’s breath!” 

Tightening his hold, his lips mumbled directly over Cullen’s heart. “You’re right, though, I would do the same for you. No matter the situation.”

“I know you would,” Cullen murmured, pressing a sweet kiss to his crown.

The smile in the younger boy’s voice was obvious, and it mollified Alistair’s fear. Maker, the depth of his feelings for Cullen were frightening in their intensity, at times. Yet they were also how he knew they were real.

Quiet descended in the small chamber. The sound of their breathing the only noise in the room, and the warrior felt himself drift under the gentle attention of his lover. The last three months since becoming a couple, they spent all but a handful of nights exploring each other’s bodies. Discovering what they liked individually and how to leave the other a quivering mess. 

Tonight, there was no sexual tension. Simply tenderness – comforting and warm. Alistair had never felt so protected and cared for. The words that begged to be spoken nearly slipped, but he caught them before he could embarrass himself further than he already had for the day.

A niggling concern jangled in his sleep addled brain and he followed the thread of thought, tracking it to its origin. Sitting in the Revered Mother’s office, but it was as he turned to leave… His eyes shot open and anxiety churned in his gut. 

Shit, he needed to tell Cullen.

Gathering his courage, Alistair whispered again. “I learned something else today.” He continued at the other boy’s interested hum. “The Revered Mother… she, uh, she knows about the tower.”

Cullen’s fingers ceased their comforting trails in the older boy’s hair and his heart sped up in the ominous stillness. “Are you certain?”

“She told me. To my face. She knows that we sneak off to the tower. But I’m not suuuure if she knows everything.” He shifted uncomfortably in the younger boy’s hold. “Apparently, she’s been aware for years, even when I went alone. And she’s never tried to stop me, or us, because she said I needed a place to escape.”

Cullen’s mind raced as he determined how he felt about the new development. Did it bother him that the Mother knew they found refuge in the tower? No, not really. It certainly relieved some of the anxiety surrounding their furtive trips to the south side of the monastery. As to how he felt about the Revered Mother possibly knowing how they spent their more recent time up there… well, there wasn’t much they could do about that, he supposed. 

And it wasn’t anyone’s fault. It’s not as though Alistair informed her himself or waved a banner giving them away. Obviously, the Mother was supremely well-informed, which should not surprise either of them, really. It was her job to look after the recruits’ care. Of course, she would know all the secret hideaways and who used them to what ends. 

Breathing deeply, Cullen resumed carding his hand soothingly through his lover’s dark tresses. He always liked when Alistair’s hair was wet; it brought out the red, enhancing the gold flecks in his eyes. Pressing a chaste kiss to the warrior’s temple, he replied.

“It’s all right. If she has no intentions of kicking us out of the tower or separating us, then we shouldn’t dwell on it.”

“I’m sorry, Cullen. I know how private you are,” Alistair whispered forlornly. 

A sniffle sounded from under his chin and Cullen's chest seized the way it always did when the strong warrior cried. One of Alistair’s best qualities was how in touch he was with his emotions. He admired that the older boy could remain attuned to his feelings and sense of humor and still be capable of tapping into a ferocity, unmatched, on the field. Strong yet kind. Tender yet fierce. An incredibly attractive combination. 

Chuckling warmly, the blonde hugged him reassuringly. “Not about us.”

Alistair froze, peeking hesitantly at him from under dark lashes. “You… w-what?”

Amber met hazel as Cullen’s hand slipped from his soft auburn locks to cup Alistair's cheek, his thumb affectionately caressing his stubbled jaw. A shy smile bloomed on his fair features, and he dropped his voice to a whisper. 

“Alistair, the only thing that keeps me from hugging or kissing you every minute of every day are the older recruits. I don’t want to make things harder for you, like I did before. I may be quiet, but I’m just like anyone else who wants to be open about their relationship. You make me… happy is not a strong enough word. With you I am myself. And you – the most handsome man I’ve ever seen – for some reason, likes who I am. When it comes to us, I’m not as private as you might think.”

With blood pounding in his ears and his heart suddenly light, Alistair tilted his head upwards to brush his lips across Cullen’s. The younger boy smiled tenderly, pressing a second kiss to his mouth with slightly more substance. Full of sweetness and care, instead of raw passion, it was one of Alistair’s favorite kisses to date.

“Just because the Revered Mother knows about the tower is not enough to keep me from going there with you,” Cullen continued. “Most times it really is as innocent as she assumes. Consider all the afternoons over the past year we’ve spent up there reading or discussing history or working on footwork. That far outweighs the last three months where things have become… heated.”

Nodding against his chest, Alistair allowed the silence of the dark to descend again, grateful that Cullen wasn’t angry and wasn’t planning to stop using their private hideout. After the first couple of months of the Sisters spying for the Revered Mother, things surely became boring enough that they ceased. Animated discussions to determine whether long swords were better than two-handed ones or Alistair teaching the newest recruit why he needed to hold his arm here for a particular choke hold to work, were quite innocuous, after all.

Closing his eyes, he relaxed fully into his lover’s embrace, but his mind would not still. Flashes of imagined reunions with his father, hopeful daydreams of a lonely boy sleeping in the kennels, haunted his thoughts preventing him from resting.

“Cullen, w-would you sing something? I need a distraction or I will never get any sleep.”

The younger boy’s smile was so radiant it could have lit the whole room as his chest exploded with affection. Maker’s breath, Alistair was perfect, and he wished he had the courage to tell him he thought so.

Burying his face in Alistair’s hair, he rumbled against his ear. “Anything in particular you want to hear?”

Alistair chuffed a soft laugh. “You could sing the bloody Chant and I’d be content. Anything you sing is immediately improved the moment it leaves your mouth.”

The blonde flushed under his effusive praise, but he responded teasingly. “Well, if you want to hear the Chant, then I have just the one for you.”

Before the older boy could protest and declare that he was jesting, Cullen started singing in a quiet baritone.

_“You know Andraste's old mabari._

_He don't show up in the Chant._

_And if you ask those holy sisters,_

_Well, they'll say Andraste can't_

_Have had some big old smelly wardog.”_

Alistair’s laughter caused Cullen’s smile to grow impossibly wider, and by the third stanza he’d shimmied up the bed to face the blonde and sing along between fits of giggles.

_“And there's Andraste's mabari_

_By the Holy Prophet's side._

_In the fight against Tevinter,_

_That dog would never hide._

_They say the Maker sent him special,_

_Always loyal, without pride,_

_So he could be the sworn companion_

_Of the Maker's Holy Bride.”_

Their voices faded out in unison as they finished the famous tavern song, staring at one another across the pillow wearing identical grins. Alistair leaned close to press a fervent kiss to the other boy’s lips, thumbing his cheek when he pulled away with a soft smile. 

“Thank you, Cullen. That was… amazing and just what I needed.” 

Sliding his arms around the younger boy, he tucked him under his chin with a pleasant sigh, his fingers automatically delving into flaxen curls. Cullen breathed him in and returned the embrace, smiling against his golden skin. 

“Anything for you, Alistair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Andraste's Mabari" lyrics from Dragon Age Wiki


	7. Foy Porter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appx word count for this chapter: 8,584 Grab a tea/coffee and snuggle under a blanket and prepare for fluff.
> 
> Also, hover over the Orlesian text for a translation. Thanks to my marvelous friend Jennserr for helping me with html formatting. Thank you, boo!!

**Firstfall 1, Satinalia 9:25 Dragon**

The abbey was abuzz in anticipation of the holiday. 

With the Revered Mother’s permission, small groups of recruits perused the village market during the weeks leading up to the occasion for gifts. Cullen and Alistair opted to pool their Chantry allowances, since the older boy barely touched his coin over the years, which left them with a substantial sum. More than enough to afford presents for the people they wanted to celebrate for the holiday.

Shopping together was an eye-opening experience. Cullen discovered Alistair’s natural eye for beauty usually found the most expensive item on every table first. Yet it was impossible to begrudge his taste, especially when they were buying for those they cared for. As a merchant’s son, the younger boy was also adept at spotting quality craftsmanship, but only he could identify when items were exorbitantly priced beyond their worth.

Alistair’s estimation of the blonde increased tenfold when he watched him expertly haggle with vendors until both parties reached an agreement they could live with. If the merchant refused to budge, Cullen would simply walk away, which was usually all the incentive required for the seller to reconsider his obstinacy. 

A few of the merchant’s daughters were so taken by the bronze recruit with the honey gaze and bright smile, they slashed the prices of their wares whenever he showed interest in an item, hoping he would ask to call on them during the festivities. Cullen bit back a grin as each girl saw her dreams dashed as Alistair flushed, awkwardly mumbling excuses before fleeing, secreting himself among the market stalls. 

Glancing at the younger boy despondently, Cullen kept his face impassive as he shrugged in faux confusion and continued on. It pleased him to no end that the maidens’ blatant flirting failed to work on the handsome warrior, reassuring him that Alistair’s affections would never lie with any of the village girls, no matter how pretty they were.

Having purchased presents for those in the abbey, Alistair surprised him when he declared they should shop for his siblings. The auburn-haired youth even chose the gifts, which touched the younger boy more deeply than he could articulate. The words quite literally stuck in his throat as the excited warrior scoured the market, asking Cullen’s opinion as he went. 

“Would Mia like this?” “Does this color suit Rosalie?” “You said Branson sketches, what about charcoal sticks?”

Each merchant carefully wrapped their purchases in oilcloth and they carried their spoils happily to the abbey. Once in their room, Cullen’s chest warmed as he stared at the wonderful presents the other boy picked out. A book of poetry with gilt edges for Mia, a set of charcoals for Branson, and hair ribbons in five different colors for Rosalie since Alistair couldn’t decide on one when Cullen told him her hair was the same shade as his. 

Every gift impeccably selected for the intended recipient, forcing Cullen to blink back tears. Alistair only knew his family through stories and reading Mia’s letters over his shoulder, but he _knew_ them. Possibly better than Cullen, because he paid attention to small details and it was apparent he strove to make them happy. They were as much Alistair’s family as his own now he realized, and the sudden cognizance astounded him.

They organized the Rutherford gifts into one bundle for easy delivery. Resting atop the bounty inside was a letter from their long-distance brother with a humorous postscript in Alistair’s bold hand. Hidden in the cheeky paragraph was a flirtatious comment regarding Mia’s ‘fair beauty and fiery passion’ he’d heard so much about. Cullen snorted when he read it. Alistair’s natural charm was on full display, recalling the time he told the blonde in jest to include the line in his first letter home. He was tempted to scratch it out and tell Mia to ignore his buffoonery, but decided to leave it. Let his family see Alistair’s personality. When he was brave enough to tell them how much the older boy meant to him, his family would understand what attracted him to the golden warrior. 

With a fond smile, Cullen expertly tied the care package with twine and passed it off to one of the Sisters, who kindly agreed to send it with the next messenger to visit the abbey.

Now, two weeks later, the holiday had officially arrived, and it was one of the rare days each year the boys were excused from duties and given free rein to join the celebrations in the village. The more impatient recruits headed for the village after the midday meal, but since the true revelry wouldn’t begin until the sun set, most found ways to occupy their time in the monastery until later in the day. 

When the bells chimed the fourth hour, the boys hastened from the library to their room with matching grins. Time to distribute their remaining gifts. Pulling two packages wrapped in oilcloth from their dresser, they headed to the opposite side of the abbey for their first delivery. 

Setting the larger of the two packages down, they knocked on the Revered Mother’s door, shaking off their nerves when she bade them enter. Glancing up from her desk, the older woman blinked in momentary surprise to see the boys instead of a priest, but she smiled warmly in greeting as the young men shyly ducked into her office.

“Alistair. Cullen. How may I help you?”

Bowing quickly, they fidgeted with anxiety, but she patiently waited for them to speak while observing their non-verbal communication with a growing sense of enlightenment. A quirk of a brow in silent query, a small tilt of the head in reply, a simultaneous shrug, gave way to warm smiles blooming across their faces. The Revered Mother smothered a knowing grin, maintaining a neutral expression for their sakes. 

Cullen stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Your Reverence, we thought it only appropriate with the holiday to show you our appreciation. Were it not for you bunking us together, it is not likely that Alistair and I would have become such fast friends.”

The timbre of the younger boy’s voice momentarily startled her. While used to being surrounded by boys growing into men, training to become warriors of the faith, rarely did she speak to them individually. The last time the Mother spoke directly to Cullen was the day he joined as a recruit a year and a half ago and his voice had not established its true register. It was now apparent who the smooth baritone in the choir belonged to and she made a mental note to speak to Sister Agnes regarding solo pieces for him.

Alistair moved to stand beside the blonde and presented her with a small package hidden behind his back. The boys shared an excited glance as the older woman gingerly took the gift. Carefully, she unfolded the cloth, gasping when the object inside was revealed. 

A hand-carved statuette of Andraste stared at her, hewn from oak and lovingly tooled by the artisan. It depicted their Lady with hands pressed together, her face tilted heavenward, eyes closed as she prayed in supplication to the Maker. Her expression was soft, serene, _joyful_ in her moment of peace - the true ideal for those with pure hearts. 

A light touch of paint gave life to the statue: a faint wash of pink to stain her lips, hair the color of ripe wheat, robes a delicate shade of blue. The colors were sealed with clear lacquer to preserve them and the coating gleamed under the sun’s rays streaming into the small chamber.

Tears pricked her eyes at the gracious gift. Most figures of Andraste were carved of stone and left unadorned for placement along the grounds of any Chantry for the public to venerate. Such a precious icon was rare, even among the clerics. 

“Boys, I… am honored.” Her watery gaze met their blushing features. Running her fingertips along the edge of the Prophet’s hair, she shook her head softly. “But I fear this is too much. I cannot accept such a gift. How did you even acquire the money for such a marvel?” 

“Please, Revered Mother,” Alistair replied. “We owe you much. You know how miserable I was here for four years, but that isn’t the case anymore.” Shuffling his feet, he flushed deeper and continued. “I spent little of the allowance the Chantry gives us - combined with Cullen’s we had quite a sum.”

“Your Reverence,” Cullen interjected, “money was no object in this. Satinalia is about celebrating those we care about. I-I never had a friend until I met Alistair. All I ever wanted was to become a Templar and while that is still true, I never realized how much I wanted someone I could count on. Even more than joining the Order. The Maker would see all His children happy and to acknowledge those who make that possible.”

The woman peered thoughtfully at the blonde recruit, aware of the proud smile of the young man beside him. Yes, they were intelligent lads and full of wisdom beyond their years. They made a handsome pair, indeed, but more than that, they were well-suited. Relationships founded on friendship were always strongest and she was grateful her gamble played out better than she hoped. 

Nodding in agreement, the woman smiled. “You are correct, Cullen. There is kindness and gentleness in both of you. I shall pray to the Maker that you never lose it. It would be a travesty if the world hardens your compassionate nature.” 

The Revered Mother smiled warmly and rose from her chair to meet the pair in the center of the room. 

“Thank you both for such a wondrous gift. I have never been more surprised and I am deeply touched by your words. Alistair, I know you have struggled and I believe that no one is more deserving of happiness than you, my child. And Cullen, I am thankful that you have found a fulfillment here that goes beyond duty to the Maker. Now, I hope you bring each other joy.”

A perceptive gleam sparkled in her azure gaze as she clasped their hands, laying her frailer one on top, chuckling at the boy’s collective gasp. It was their turn to be stunned, trembling slightly to discover that the Revered Mother knew of their relationship. 

His heart lodged in his throat, Alistair sputtered, “Your R-Reverence -” 

“Alistair, I am old, not blind,” she replied gently. “Did you think I did not suspect? It is plain for anyone with eyes to see; the two of you communicate without words, child. You are not the first couple we have seen at the abbey, nor will you be the last, I should think.” 

Cullen swallowed hard. “Isn’t fraternizing frowned upon? I thought… surely… ah, that is -” 

The boy’s free hand unconsciously rubbed his neck in embarrassment, staring at the floor following his too frank question. She kindly ignored Alistair’s mortified oath at the unintended insinuation in Cullen’s statement and reined in an undignified chuckle at their discomfort. 

“My dear boys, the Chantry does not wish to lose two warriors, especially those as talented as you for something so trivial. As long as your relationship does not interfere with your duties as recruits and eventually as Templars, it will not be an issue.” 

Sharing a glance, Cullen’s forehead creased in concern and Alistair inclined his head, biting his lip nervously. Clearing his throat, the auburn-haired boy hesitantly asked. 

“And when we take our Vigil… w-will we be separated?”

“Not if you do not wish it,” the Revered Mother smiled genially. “How do you think Ser Tabor and Ser Erlic arrived here? Their story is similar to yours. They met as recruits and were unwilling to be stationed without the other. They have been assigned to numerous postings over the years, but always when there were two positions available. As I said, the Chantry does not wish to lose two well-trained warriors simply because you care for a fellow Knight.”

Squeezing their hands affectionately, she returned to her desk pulling a piece of parchment close and filling her quill with ink to make a note. 

“When the time comes for your Vigil, we will decide together where you will both be stationed, yes? You boys have a say in your own fate.” Nodding in satisfaction, she set aside her parchment, glancing at the young warriors struggling to contain their exuberance.

“Your Reverence,” Cullen murmured, a faint blush on his ivory cheeks. “Might we – are we allowed to be open with our relationship? Like Ser Tabor and Ser Erlic?”

Inclining her head politely, she smiled, “I am not in a position to tell you otherwise, Cullen. If you wish to be open, then do so. You have nothing to hide here. Most of the older recruits who used to be a source of aggravation for you recently took their Vigil and departed, have they not?” 

The boys nodded and she sighed softly, leaning back in her chair. “I truly want the recruits to be happy here. The life of a Templar is not easy - rewarding, but difficult. The Chantry is meant to welcome all and to be a home for Templars and priests.” Turning a forlorn gaze to Alistair, she continued. “It is why I was always so saddened that you were unhappy here, child, but I could not help. In fact, I fear I would have made things worse.”

Alistair gave her a genuine smile. “I know, Revered Mother. When I was younger, I didn’t understand, and I acted out. However, I recognize why you stayed in the background, and I agree it was for the best. And knowing that you will allow us this… means more than I can say.”

The Revered Mother noted their still clasped hands and bright smiles. She couldn’t recall a time when Alistair looked content, _fulfilled_ , since being unceremoniously dropped off five years ago. Cullen, too, had grown into himself, becoming more confident with the other boy’s encouragement and tutelage.

“Now,” she stated warmly, “I’m sure you have more exciting plans for the day than spending all afternoon with me. Enjoy the festivities, my dears, and may the Maker watch over you.”

Bowing again, they murmured the appropriate response and took their leave. Alistair peeked over his shoulder as he followed Cullen, grinning when he saw the woman lovingly pick up the statuette while brushing aside tears. 

Cullen reclaimed the second package outside the door and they returned to the recruits’ side of the monastery. Once in familiar territory, the boys slipped into the servant’s passage, leaning heavily on the wall. Alistair snatched the younger boy’s free hand, and they chuckled in stunned amazement in the gloomy corridor. 

“Well,” murmured the older boy, _“that_ was unexpected.”

The blonde nodded in a daze, “But I feel _freer_ knowing that she is aware and isn’t bothered.”

Alistair squeezed his hand in silent agreement. Cullen’s thumb rubbed across the ring he gave him months ago and his heart skipped a beat when he was pinned under his molten gaze. Covering Alistair’s body with his own, he was grateful for the growth spurt in the last few months that left him only a hair shorter than his lover when he claimed his mouth.

Alistair melted in the embrace, his large arms tenderly wrapping around his broad frame, pulling him as close as possible. He fervently wished there were no clothes between them. Maker, the things Cullen did to him! It went beyond physical – it was an emotional connection. His very soul _resonated_ in his presence, a continuous hum reminiscent of a crystal vibrato. Anytime he held Cullen in his arms, sampled the sweetness of his lips, or pulled ragged gasps of pleasure from him, Alistair feared at times he would explode. 

The kiss was fierce, heady, passionate, and Cullen poured all of himself into it. There were not words accurate enough to describe the effect the golden warrior had on him. It was unlike anything he’d ever experienced and the _intensity_ of his feelings nearly brought him to his knees. He thought eight months as a couple would temper the initial _craving_ he had for him, but Maker’s breath, he only needed him more every day. His best friend and his lover - Alistair mattered more to him than his desire to become a Templar. 

Separating breathlessly, they rested their foreheads together, humming as one. A lazy smile graced Alistair’s full lips and Cullen chuckled huskily under his breath. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” the blonde teased. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

Rolling his eyes playfully, the other boy replied, “Oh, yes, it was absolutely terrible. I can’t believe you would accost me in such a manner. Have you no shame?”

Snorting at the ridiculous frivolity he adored, the blonde brushed a chaste parting kiss to his lover’s forehead and stepped out of the embrace. 

“Come on, we still need to see Margie.”

Nodding with a crooked grin, Alistair led the way, their hands comfortably locked as they wove their way through the abbey. He gave Cullen a firm squeeze before reluctantly releasing his hold as they emerged into the main hallway that led them to the kitchen.

The maids had already been sent home for the day, most likely driving the cook to distraction gushing about potential suitors dancing with them in the village square later. Margie’s back was to them as she hid a fresh loaf of bread under a wooden bread cover on the side counter next to a collection of bowls and spoons. A large cast iron cauldron hung on a metal hook off-side the fire to keep the contents warm, but prevent the stew from burning on the bottom. 

An easy meal for the priests and Knights who would not be joining the revelry in the village. Truly, the woman was a saint.

Cullen smiled fondly as Alistair crept behind her and enveloped her with his large frame. Laughing boisterously, she turned around to give him a proper hug.

“Happy Satinalia, Margie,” he murmured in her hair, practically bent double to reach the short woman’s head.

“Happy Satinalia, Alistair.” Peering at him tenderly, she cupped his face in her hands, rubbing her thumbs along his chiseled jaw. “You grow more into a man every day. It makes me proud and sad.” 

Alistair ducked his head shyly with a blush, releasing her so Cullen could hug her next. Margie waved the blonde over enthusiastically, and he kicked off the counter he was leaning on to join them with a grin. 

“Happy Satinalia, Cullen. Goodness, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you boys being so tall!” 

His chest rumbled with warm laughter as he embraced the woman, sharing an affectionate glance with Alistair over her head. “Happy Satinalia, Margie. I’m glad we caught you before you left for the village.”

“Me, too, dear. I have gifts for you!” 

Wiping her eyes furtively, she slipped out of the blonde’s grasp and reached inside one of the lower cabinets to pull out two medium-sized packages. Checking the charcoal initials on the corners, she smiled before passing them to the correct person. 

With broad grins they quickly unwrapped their gifts revealing three soft linen tunics for each of them. Black trimmed in gold for Alistair and red edged with black for Cullen. They weren’t for daily wear; they were too nice for that. These were to be worn on special occasions and handled with care so they would last. 

Cullen’s eyes welled with tears. He hadn’t worn anything so fine since leaving home and he doubted Alistair ever had. Peeking at the boy beside him, overcome with emotion, proved his assumption correct. An empathetic pang echoed in his chest to be reminded of how devoid of care and affection the older warrior’s life had been until recently. 

“Margie…” Alistair breathed. “I-I… _thank you._ ” 

Launching himself at her, Alistair lifted her off the ground startling a squeak out of her which quickly turned into a short laugh as she tucked her weathered face against his chest. The warrior mumbled something he couldn’t hear which broke their composure. After a few moments, Alistair carefully set her down and Cullen rejoined them, his tears mingling with theirs. The trio stood like that for a few moments until the woman squished between them found her voice.

“Alistair, you have been like a son to me. All these years spent kicking your feet on my stool after your lessons, watching me roll dough, and stealing sticky buns. Getting in trouble and coming to me to talk about it. And Cullen when you came to the abbey, so timid and polite, you became my second son. The way you two take care of one another fills me with joy, because I know you aren’t alone.” 

She quaked under them again, choking on her words between her tears. 

“I know that all children leave their parents and I have seen many boys come and go. But when you boys grow into the good men I know you will be and depart for places unknown, it will break my heart. I know there is plenty of time yet, but I wanted you to have something to remember me by. Something cozy and comforting. A reminder of a warm kitchen and an old woman who took to you like a mother hen.”

With a gentle squeeze, Cullen muttered, “We love you, Margie. You can hen-peck us anytime. Maker knows, we need a mother to keep us in line. And you’re _not_ old.” The woman giggled brokenly and Alistair pitched in, his words thick with emotion. 

“He’s right, Margie. I-I’ve never had a mother. You’re the closest I’ve ever had to one and in my head anyway, I think of you as my mine. I can’t tell you how much you mean to me –” His voice gave out for a moment, but he cleared it and barreled on. “I love you, Margie. I am proud to be your son.”

“And I am proud of both of you precious boys,” came her muffled reply. 

With quiet laughter, the youths unfolded her from their combined hold wiping their cheeks. Spinning to the side counter, Cullen passed Margie the package he laid aside when they entered. She stared at them mouth agape, not expecting them to have a gift for her, as well. Blushing under their twin grins, she unfolded the oilcloth, her hand covering her mouth with a gasp when the flaps fell away.

A large wool shawl in heather gray stared at her from the wrapping. Wildflower wreaths were embroidered on the front corners in vibrant saffron, cobalt, and emerald thread. There was enough fabric that she could pull the excess over her head to double as a hood and protect her face from the elements. 

Soft, warm, beautiful, and practical – it was perfect for Margie.

Stepping forward, Alistair carefully picked it up and draped it around her while she shook her head in disbelief. He sweetly smoothed out the wrinkles with a murmur, “It looks beautiful on you. I knew it would.”

“You… chose it?” The golden youth nodded shyly at her whispered question, a flush creeping high on his cheeks. 

“He has excellent taste,” chimed Cullen. His smile widened as the older boy’s blush extended, coloring the tips of his ears, but Alistair glanced at him over his shoulder with a quick rejoinder.

“I certainly do.” Hazel eyes raked his form appreciatively and Cullen’s heart leapt in reply. Though Margie knew about their relationship, he was thankful she was oblivious to Alistair’s overt flirtation. 

“Oh, boys,” her voice cracked. Her rough hands caressed the plush wool gracing her torso in wonder, lifting her watery grey eyes to each of them. “I don’t know what to say. This is… thank you.” 

“You’re welcome… Mother,” Alistair whispered as he enfolded her in his arms again. 

She clutched him fiercely with a smothered gasp and Cullen’s throat tightened. The woman who had no children and the boy who had no family, no longer alone. It sent a twinge of homesickness through him for the first time in a long time. He was so young when he chose this path - he hadn’t realized what it would cost him. Yet, when he looked at the kind warrior smiling brightly while brushing his adopted mother’s tears from her face, Cullen focused instead on what he gained. 

His first friend. A bond solidified by a promise, an oath to always be there for each other, and even during the minor blip in their friendship neither of them wavered in that. A relationship that developed organically, as natural as breathing, into something intense and true.

Watching his lover dote on the small woman, Cullen knew he couldn’t contain the secret words anymore. It was a miracle he lasted this long, honestly, but tonight he would tell him. 

“Cullen,” Alistair’s voice yanked him from his musings. “We’re escorting Mother to the village. Change your shirt!” 

Chuckling, the blonde walked towards the stack of red tunics, switching from his too loose undyed shirt he’d become accustomed to in the abbey to his dress tunic. He was careful to avert his eyes from Alistair while they changed since Margie was present and he didn’t want to embarrass himself. 

But his mouth fell open, despite his efforts, when his gaze landed on Alistair in his snug leather breeches and tailored black tunic, showcasing his noble bearing and bronze skin. Instantly transforming him from a handsome youth to a suave warrior exuding raw sexuality. 

Alistair wore a similarly stunned expression as he stared at Cullen in leather and crimson, highlighting his muscular form and piercing amber eyes. He was no longer a shy country boy, but a dashing knight his lover would willingly pledge a lifetime of service.

In two strides Alistair closed the distance between them to thoroughly kiss him. Unable to resist his charm, as ever, Cullen caved and returned it with a small whimper. They would have stayed there all night, were it not for the sound of Margie’s lilting laughter forcing them apart. 

“Well, it’s good to see you two haven’t stopped being crazy about each other. You’ve been so well-behaved, I was beginning to worry,” she teased. The boys sputtered in embarrassment, unsure how to respond, which only made her snicker harder.

Sharing small smiles, they collected their tunics and with Margie between them headed to the dormitory to drop off their new clothes. As they walked, Cullen studied the tiny, neatly spaced stitches of the fine embroidery along his shirt. Rolling the hem through his fingers, he recalled nights when he was younger, falling asleep while his mother burned a candle down, humming softly as she sewed her children’s clothes. 

“Margie,” he whispered. Blinking back the tears stinging his eyelids, Cullen pulled the woman to him in a fierce embrace. 

“I don’t know how you got our measurements,” he choked, “but I haven’t had anything like this since I left home. It means so much that you tailored these for me. Thank you.”

Chuckling, she murmured against his broad chest. “I seem to remember an armorsmith arriving to take measurements for your Templar issue. I’ve known him for nigh two decades and he didn’t mind sharing.”

“I’m very glad he did,” he rasped. 

Leaning over her diminutive form, he pressed a kiss to her crown and her arms tightened around him in response. Resuming their trek through the abbey, Alistair shot him an adoring glance across the short woman, causing him to blush at the open tenderness in his eyes. 

With their tunics tucked in the dresser, the boys genteelly crooked their elbows for Margie. Giggling brightly, she hooked her arms through them and the young warriors led her toward the main gate. Once beyond the entrance, the trio erupted into spontaneous laughter, uncontrolled joy bursting from them in waves.

When they were far enough from the monastery and reasonably certain no one was nearby, Margie whispered exaggeratedly. “So, boys, how long has it been now? I know you hadn’t been an item very long when I caught Alistair stealing that kiss in the hallway.”

Alistair’s warm gaze met Cullen’s and the blonde laughed with a shrug, answering easily. “No, you’re right. We’d only been together a couple of months then. We’re going on eight now.”

“Seven months and twenty-one days,” corrected Alistair. Amazingly, only a minute wash of pink tinged his cheeks at the pronouncement that brought Cullen up short. 

The younger boy stared intently at his lover, his chest rising and falling in time with his pounding heart. Maker’s breath… was Alistair counting the days of their relationship? His insides quivered, _melted_ , with barely contained euphoria to learn how much they mattered as a couple to the auburn-haired warrior.

Margie glanced from Cullen to Alistair, noting the yearning in the older boy’s eyes and she struggled to maintain her composure amid her excitement. Merciful Andraste, she hoped they figured it out soon.

Resuming his pace, Cullen cleared his throat, clearly overwhelmed by Alistair’s revelation. Blushing, he murmured through suddenly dry lips. “Yes, seven months and twenty-one days.”

“Good,” she announced blithely, “I know for a fact that there isn’t a better choice for either of you. Take the blessings the Maker gives you and hold fast, my dears.” 

Fidgeting with uncertainty, Alistair muttered, “I never asked Mother, you… aren’t upset we didn’t tell you sooner?”

“No, son, I’m not,” she replied with a tender smile. “You had your reasons, and it was wise to be certain things would work out between you first. I’m sorry I stumbled on your private moment. Maker knows you don’t get many in an abbey full of people! It’s your relationship, dear. Only you two can decide if or when you want to share it with others.” 

They snuggled closer to her, words failing to express the depth of the boys’ gratitude for her understanding and wisdom. 

“For the record,” Cullen started after a pause, “we were planning to tell you, but we didn’t know how. Alistair and I were trying to gather our courage that day when you stepped out of the kitchen and saw him kiss me.” Chuckling softly, he continued, “It seems the Maker has a sense of humor, so no need to feel guilty. It worked out perfectly.”

“I would have to agree,” Alistair replied, tossing Cullen a wink.

They spent the remainder of the walk sharing local gossip to pass the time. When they entered the village proper, Margie took the lead, weaving them through the milling crowd towards her cottage on the western outskirts. 

“How do you get to and from the monastery every day?” queried Alistair as they passed through the town. 

“Some nights I sleep at the abbey, if the weather is bad, or it’s too late to travel. But usually one of the Knights gives me a ride home and Ser Miles is typically the one waiting to escort me in the morning. It’s much faster on horseback. The Revered Mother has offered me permanent lodgings many times, but I like my house and my privacy.”

As if spoken into existence, the cottage materialized, framed by oak trees that dressed with leaves in the spring would make a charming backdrop. It was a spacious, single-roomed abode with a tightly woven thatched roof, which received a nod of approval from the young men. They needn’t fear her roof collapsing under the weight of Ferelden’s harsh winter snows. 

Beckoning them inside, the boys were forced to duck to pass under the low lintel and remained stooped under the ceiling not meant to accommodate such height. Margie indicated a pair of short stools which they gratefully settled on, legs akimbo on the stone floor scattered with fresh threshing. 

Bustling in an excited tizzy, the woman carefully hung up her shawl on the hook by the door, and dashed the short distance to her kitchen. With a flourish, she raised the wooden lid of the bread box on the counter to reveal a fresh loaf of sourdough bread. A jar of apple butter appeared from thin air and she liberally smeared it along the thick slices she cut for them with a broad grin.

Humming in contentment as the tang of the sourdough mingled with the sweet butter on their tongues, affection welled within the duo as Margie flit around in a scene familiar to the boys from the monastery. In her exuberance, she bestowed light touches on their hair or cheeks every time she rounded the table, piling more food in front of them. Neither of them was quite sure where the bounty was coming from, but they didn’t ask questions as cold cuts and cheese materialized to sate their growing appetite. 

Her elation was infectious and by the time they left an hour later, with full bellies and happy hearts, all three were aware a new family had been forged. An unbreakable link. A family of their choosing - not tied to blood, but built on love. Waving goodbye to them from her door, giddy tears shone in her gray eyes. The boys brushed their cheeks where Margie pressed soft kisses as she wished them a good night during the festivities. 

Once in the village square, the boys donned the black masks the townsfolk passed out. It didn’t hide their identities, merely covering their eyes and nose. Though, even with a full mask the entire village would have recognized the stately Templar recruits. Standing taller than most of the grown men in town and built for battle, they were the object of many girls' fantasies. Always together – the one with golden skin, the other with golden hair, and nearly identical eyes the color of West Hill Brandy but twice as heady. Now, as the pair wove their way easily through the throng in their dress tunics, they captivated everyone present with their elegance and handsome physique.

Leaning against the baker’s storefront the boys sipped their mugs of spiced wine, engaged in a private conversation replete with broad grins and carefree chuckles. They nodded politely to passing villagers or fellow recruits, but never mingled with any of the scattered groups dotting the center of town. When the last of the sun’s rays winked out on the horizon, the crowd cheered under the rise of the second moon - Satina. 

Tossing back the dregs in their cups the boys fell into the crowd with a shout as moonlight flooded the square. The musicians played in earnest, while the town fool waved his scepter drunkenly from his perch on the edge of the well, declaring the start of the revelry. Taking their cue, the Templar recruits scattered throughout the square plucked their courage and threw caution to the wind, converging on the local populace. Within moments none of the single women in the village were without a partner to dance with in the radiant glow of the double moons. Bowing and spinning, twirling and laughing, villager and recruit, young and old - merriment took center stage in the small town. 

The delicate hand tucked in his felt unnatural even as Alistair guided the pretty brunette through the steps, yet his eyes continuously sought another’s in the ethereal light. Captivating, entreating - they unlocked words too long unspoken, ready for flight. Every time his curls bounced or his hips followed through a mindless repetition, his heart clenched and he wondered why in the blasted Void he waited so long to tell him. 

Her touch was light, not firm enough, fingers soft where they shouldn’t be. Carrying her through the motions, Cullen was entranced by legs corded with strength and a brilliant smile on full lips. Beguiling, enticing, addicting. Their eyes locked on the next turn and the fire coiled in his gut flared through his veins, burning away his breath, and those secret words so long hidden begged to be freed.

After the fifth song, the boys tried to escape the dance circle, the flush on their cheeks not from exertion alone. But another pair of girls replaced the last and by mutual concession they fell in line. It was a slower-paced tune, and the lyrics pricked Cullen’s ears, forcing the blonde to listen carefully.

_To keep faith, to guard your honor, and seek peace._

_To fear and serve and honor – all these I will until I die,_

_Peerless lady._

_For I love you so, without a lie!_

_That one could dry up, the high seas, and hold back its waves_

_Before I could hold back, my love for you._

_I do not lie;_

_For my thoughts, my memories, my pleasures_

_And my desires are forever_

_In you, whom I cannot abandon, nor drive from my mind._

_There is no joy or pleasure, nor any other good thing one may feel_

_Or imagine, which does not seem to fade._

_When your kindness chooses to sweeten my bitterness._

_For which I will praise_

_And adore and respect you._

_To suffer everything._

_To enjoy everything with you._

_To endure everything, all these,_

_I wish more than I desire_

_To win reward._

_You are the true sapphire which can heal all my hurts_

_And end them:_

_An emerald for rejoicing._

_A ruby to brighten my heart and comfort it._

_Your words._

_Your looks._

_Your bearing cause to flee_

_And hate and despise every vice,_

_And all good things hold dear and desire._

_To keep faith, to guard your honor, and seek peace._

_To fear and serve and honor – all these I will until I die,_

_Peerless lady._

When the final warble of the lute faded, Alistair trembled under the intensity of Cullen’s stare. He noticed the blonde’s attention to the verses at the start and joined him in keenly listening to every word. It never occurred to him that a song existed that so embodied everything he felt for the younger warrior. Alistair was laid bare, without so much as a by-your-leave. From start to finish the young men seared each other with a penetrating gaze, indifferent to anyone or anything outside their bubble, moving by rote through the steps of the round. Cullen’s chest ached with the weight of his ardor under the golden youth’s darkening scrutiny, desperately needing to be alone with him.

With clipped bows to the partners they paid no heed to, the duo made their escape, electricity sparking and flaring between them as they snagged mugs of spiced wine to slake their thirst. Cullen didn’t even care when he slid the wine merchant a whole silver instead of the handful of coppers requested, before the pair stole away from the throng, leaving their drained cups behind.

Slipping into the dense trees bordering the village, they gingerly picked their way through the underbrush, not wanting to snag their tunics. Once the sounds of the village were faint enough to be safe from discovery, Alistair’s hand wrapped around Cullen’s wrist, yanking him flush and roughly capturing his lips. The blonde responded in kind, clapping a hand fiercely against the boy’s neck to anchor him as they kissed, nipping and suckling with urgency, pulling harsh gasps from one another. With a hushed growl, the older warrior slid his fingers underneath his lover’s mask, letting it fall carelessly in the night, his own following on its heels.

It was too much. Too much adrenaline, too much frustration, too long withholding. Wrenching back with a moan, amber eyes ensnared hazel in the dappled moonlight, lips so close they moved against the older boy’s when he whispered.

“Alistair, I love you. I’ve wanted to say it a thousand times before this, but I didn’t know if I should.”

Reclaiming Cullen’s lips with a muffled groan, the auburn-haired warrior kissed him until he could barely breathe, arms secure as tempered silverite holding him firm when he thought he might collapse. But he knew Alistair would never let him fall.

With a heady moan, Alistair released his mouth and pressed their foreheads together in an attempt to steady his trembling. 

“Maker’s breath, Cullen… I-I’ve loved you for so long. I wasn’t sure if you felt the same, so I never… never said anything.” Lips trailed along his jawline to his ear and breathed, “I love you so much. Can I-I show you? Here? I don’t think I can wait until we get back to the abbey.”

The younger boy assented, an affirmative plea that sounded more like a desperate whine, and the other boy chuckled warmly in the dark. Goosebumps erupted on his overheated flesh at the sound – the jagged _whuff_ of his breath along the sensitive shell of his ear – as large hands, the _right_ hands, gently propped him against a tree.

With a whisper of fabric, calloused, confident fingers slipped underneath his shirt seeking skin and he shivered, knocking his curls against the bark. Names murmured ardently in tandem, they sighed together in the lustrous night. Golden fingers splayed across fair muscles, feather light, lovingly caressing, as his hands snagged a fistful of auburn with a ragged groan. Full lips curved triumphantly against his neck, dipping to his collarbone, tongue swirling in the hollow of his throat. Alistair moaned at the taste of him, the feel of his erratic pulse a match for his own. 

Fingers danced lower, deftly loosening the laces of his breeches, and with a final brush of lips, the older boy sank to his knees and Cullen forgot how to breathe. Hot and wet, his ability to think instantly obliterated, nerves flooded with sensation, overwhelmed by the sheer crush of want, need, _love_ , that threatened to smother him.

Gasping, pleading, hands tangled in Alistair’s hair, he slammed his eyelids shut and prayed – but it wasn’t the Chant that fell from his lips. _His_ name, like honey, a sweet to be savored. Lingering in his ears even when he was robbed of his capacity for speech. A litany of devotion filled his heart, trapped in his throat, jagged groans mingling with a pleasant hum from below in the cool night air.

The expanse of dark behind his eyelids brightened on the edges and he quaked, thumb brushing his lover’s chiseled jaw – a warning. A strong hand ensnared his and _squeezed_ , and as the dam broke, so did he. _I love you._ Swept away by the force of his affection, unprepared for how much that word, now shared between them would suffuse his soul, leaving him utterly wrecked and supremely satisfied at the same time.

Cullen smiled when eyes flashing gold entered his field of vision, a lopsided grin gracing his noble features. _Alistair._ The older boy nodded in wonder and it sluggishly dawned on him that he said his name aloud.

“I love you, you know,” the blonde rasped through parched lips, trembling with residual passion.

His lover closed the gap between them, breathing reverently. “So, you said… rather spectacularly, I might add. Sweet Andraste, Cullen… you are _beautiful_ , but that – you... you took my breath away. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of hearing you say you love me, nor of telling you that I love you, too.”

Finding his other hand in the dark, the younger boy gripped him hard, whispering, “Did that… feel different to you, too?”

Alistair nodded earnestly and pulled him into his arms, supporting his weight with ease as he swayed on weak knees. Burrowing their faces into each other’s neck, they tried in vain to calm their racing hearts. It was an earth quaking shift. Their declaration finally spoken and affirmed with purest conviction, immediately altered them from two people into one – the same breath, the same heart, the same soul.

“I don’t want us to be a secret anymore, Cullen.” Alistair’s voice was thick with emotion, his hold bordering on crushing as he murmured against his skin. “I don’t think I _can_ keep us a secret after tonight. I love you and Maker save me, I want everyone to know that you are mine and I am yours.”

Fingers carded into his short hair, rubbing soothing circles along his scalp, and the blonde nodded on his shoulder. “I agree. I-I can’t – I _don’t want_ to hide anymore, either.” He chuckled weakly, “I wonder how many will be jealous I snagged the handsome prince.”

Alistair felt the curve of his lover’s teasing smile and he chuffed a soft laugh in response. Maker’s breath, he loved him so much it hurt. 

Leaning out of the embrace, Cullen cupped his face, thumb sweetly caressing his cheek. His smile softened when Alistair exhaled, melting into his touch. 

“Let’s go back to the abbey. I want to be alone with you,” Cullen whispered.

Nodding fervently, Alistair helped him straighten his clothes and with fingers intertwined they tiptoed through the trees toward the road that led home.

* * *

The next morning found them awake before the sun, tangled contentedly together, staring at one another in wonder. As light filtered into their periphery, the pair recalled the night filled with impassioned declarations of love and reverential kisses, the sanctity of which bled into daylight. 

Golden fingers trailed across fair skin and Cullen’s chest flushed under his gentle ministrations, sending his heart racing. A slender thumb traced Alistair’s bottom lip, stealing the blonde’s breath when his pink tongue followed in its wake, tasting the salt left behind. Neither dared speak, afraid to shatter the spell, communicating all they wished to say through touch alone.

Their admission in the woods the night before heightened everything between them. Intensified into an emotion deeper than love, yet that was the closest description they could find to express what they felt. It was present in every caress, every kiss, every sigh – tangible and real.

Alistair pressed his palm over the younger boy’s pounding heart, lifting his eyebrows in silent query. Cullen’s hand mimicked his gesture, the insistent cadence inside the other boy’s chest all the affirmation he needed. Smiling, the blonde nodded before leaning in to claim his addictive lips. 

Murmuring into the kiss, Cullen reassured him. “Yes, love. I feel it, too.”

The older warrior slid him closer to deepen the embrace. When they resurfaced for air, Alistair’s mouth tugged into a slow smirk. 

“I really like being your ‘love.’ Does this mean I can call you the same?”

“I’d be hurt if you didn’t,” he replied with a faint blush. 

Brushing the short curls from his forehead, Alistair whispered, “Well, we can’t have that, can we, _love?_ ” 

Cullen shook his head slowly, pupils dilating to hear the endearment in Alistair’s dulcet tone. Reaching up, the blonde grazed the slightly pointed tip of his ear in adoration. 

“Have I ever told you that I love your ears?”

Alistair flushed, ducking his head to mumble in the pillow. “I don’t know why. You know what it means.”

“And that matters why, exactly? So, you have elf-blood?” Cullen tilted the other boy’s chin, his amber gaze swirling with affection. “I’m sure many in Thedas can say the same. I don’t care if you’re human, elf, or some combination of the two. You’re Alistair, _my_ Alistair, and I love you.” 

Shaking his head with a shy smile, his auburn hair rustled along the sheets. “I know I shouldn’t even be worried at this point, but it’s the… one thing we’ve never talked about. I wasn’t sure how you felt about me not being fully human.”

Huffing in mild reproof, Cullen quirked an eyebrow. “Like I care about your royal blood?”

“Touché,” Alistair snorted.

“Oh, ho! Are you Orlesian, too, good ser? Should I be concerned for my virtue as an honest Fereldan by your machinations?” the blonde teased with a smirk.

"Oui, tu devrais certainement,” Alistair promised huskily, his lips scant inches from the younger boy’s mouth.

Humming in appreciation, Cullen’s fingertips trailed feather-light along his muscular torso. “Oh? Dis-moi.”

Growling, the warrior ground suggestively against his lover’s thigh. “Je préfère te montrer.”

“Nous n’avons pas le temps, mon amour,” the blonde sighed sadly.

“Merde.”

“You just wanted an opportunity to curse in Orlesian,” Cullen quipped. 

“Honestly, it just worked out that way,” Alistair replied with a shrug. “But at least we can tell Sister Antoinette we practiced today when she asks.”

“Fair enough. We just won’t give her a running commentary.”

“Maker, I should think not,” Alistair shrieked in mock horror. His full lips curved into a grin at his lover’s robust laughter. He could always count on Cullen to find whatever fell out of his mouth amusing, and Andraste, he loved making him laugh.

Sitting up, the older boy disentangled himself from the bedding, but paused at the blonde’s firm hold on his forearm. He frowned as Cullen rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. 

“What is it?”

The younger boy attempted a weak smile, pushing himself upright to look him in the eyes. “I-I’ve been thinking about doing something, but I’ve been waiting to tell you how much I loved you first.”

Chuckling nervously, Alistair clutched the thin coverlet as tendrils of fear snaked up his spine. “That sounds ominous.”

Cullen blanched and gripped the other boy’s hands. “Oh, no! It’s not bad, at all! I just didn’t know if you would want me to -” Swallowing hard, the blonde breathed deeply to steady himself. 

“I want to tell my family… about us. I’ve wanted to for some time, but I didn’t want to say anything before I knew where we stood. And not without asking you how you felt about informing them.”

Alistair’s mouth hung open in shock, his eyes wide and unblinking, rendered completely speechless. He tried to reply, but nothing came out. Even his mind was mute. It was the last thing he ever expected Cullen to say and it took his brain a few seconds to start functioning again. 

“A-Are you okay? I didn’t say something wrong, did I? I don’t have to tell them, of course, I just thought -”

“Yes.”

The blonde stopped mid-sentence and stared at the older boy. 

“Yes... what?”

“Yes,” Alistair croaked. “Tell them. I-If you’re sure, then I’m definitely okay with that.”

“You-you are?” 

Elation flowed through Alistair, leaving him lightheaded, until he thought he might pass out from sheer joy. He wished he could tell Cullen how much this small act meant to him, but he doubted the words had been invented yet. The boy he loved with his whole being wanted to tell his family the truth about their relationship. To tell them how much he, _the bastard_ , meant to him. To tell them he _loved_ him.

But the only reply the auburn-haired boy could muster was to nod so violently Cullen feared he might strain his neck. The blonde’s chest rose and fell rapidly in time with Alistair’s as he pulled him tight for a crushing hug.

“I love you.” 

Murmured in breathless unison, they closed any remaining space between them after their synchronized affirmation, their angles and curves molding into one. 

“We’ll write the letter this evening,” Cullen promised. “Together. How does that sound?”

Huffing a shaky laugh, the golden warrior’s lips ghosted his lover’s skin. “That sounds perfect, love. Absolutely perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Foy Porter” trans. “Keep Faith” by Guillaume de Machaut (c.1300-1377). Text revision and translation © Jennifer Garnham (2003) and © David Wyatt (2015) – mixed the two translations to get the best flow
> 
> *I headcanon that a Chantry education would include learning Orlesian. At the very least, knowing the Chant of Light in Orlesian, considering the seat of the Chantry is in Val Royeaux. So, whether the boys like Orlais or not, it is part of their education. Much like a medieval education included Latin and Greek, even though they would likely never be used daily for those not in the Church. So yeah, they speak Orlesian. And it is fucking adorable when they flirt in Orlesian. 😎💕


	8. Family Ties

**Firstfall 20, 9:25 Dragon**

“Sister Agnes said it was just delivered!” 

Alistair waved a letter in the air as he barreled breathlessly into their room. Cullen tossed aside his book and launched off the bed. Snatching the letter, he pried open the simple wax seal and unfolded the creamy parchment while the other boy caught his breath.

_Cullen and Alistair,_

_You precious boys! We received your gifts in time for Satinalia, and I cannot tell you how much your thoughtfulness warmed all our hearts._

_Branson squealed -_ _ squealed _ _\- when he saw the charcoals, brother. Papa has struggled to get his hands on them lately, and the poor dear was down to nubs. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but he’s taken to spending time on the dock at the lake. I’m certain he plans to sketch the scene for you as a thank you, since we all know how much you love it._

 _Rosalie is constantly switching her ribbons, even if they do not match her outfit. She claims not to have a favorite and insists I tell you she “loves them all equally” and therefore,_ _must_ _give them equal time decorating her hair. I do believe our dear Rosie has developed a bit of a crush on Alistair, sight unseen. Having a ten-year-old girl sigh melodramatically every time we mention his name_ _is_ _exactly what every strapping warrior hopes for, isn’t it?_

 _I’m sorry, Alistair, I couldn’t resist teasing you. I must admit, however, that even I blushed when I read your comment regarding my “fair beauty and fiery passion.” Such flattery, good ser! Just what_ _has_ _my darling brother been telling you, I wonder?_

_And the book! I haven’t been able to put it down! I never took you as the sort for romance, Cullen. It seems you have been hiding things from me. Of course - you’ve always been reserved and I know we grate on your nerves with our boisterousness. Where your shy nature came from in this family of loud-mouths is a mystery for the ages, but we wouldn’t have you any other way._

_Please do not worry about Mama and Papa, Cullen. Neither of them felt slighted. You know how parents are; they much prefer to see their children happy than partake themselves. More than anything we were excited to hear from you, to get to know Alistair better (gallant and cheeky! I can see why you’re friends), and to read stories of your life in the abbey. Your letter was chipper and full of your famous dry wit, which we all miss terribly. Templar training seems to agree with you and finding a kindred spirit in your best friend helps, too, I’m sure._

_I have run out of news to share, so I will end this here. I just wanted to let you know how much we enjoyed hearing from you. Don’t be a stranger, either of you. Your letters are a bright spot for us here in the country. And Alistair, dear, you don’t have to resign yourself to postscripts in Cullen’s letters - you are welcome to send your own. Take care of each other, boys. I pray the Maker keeps you both safe._

_All my (sisterly) love,_

_Mia_

Cullen laughed brightly, his older sister’s voice ringing in his ears as he read her words. Catching sight of Alistair’s excited gaze as he devoured the letter over his shoulder, the blonde swiveled to steal a kiss from the warrior’s full lips. 

“First, it was the kitchen maids and village girls. Now you have both my sisters swooning! I wonder what Mia will say when I tell her _you_ chose the poetry?”

The boy’s bronze skin darkened under his blush, but he joked in response. “Including you, that’s three out of four Rutherfords.”

Quirking an eyebrow, the blonde quipped. “Maker, you’re right! You don’t do anything by half, do you, love?” Alistair ducked his head in embarrassment, but Cullen chuckled warmly. “I jest, Alistair. You’re effortlessly charming, in person and on paper, and it’s one of my favorite things about you. It’s amusing to discover my own sisters aren’t immune.” 

Clearing his throat, the auburn-haired boy whispered against Cullen’s neck. “Do you think they received the other letter yet?”

Turning to face him fully, Cullen smiled softly and wrapped his arms around the other boy’s waist. “I’m sure they have. I’m positive their response is on the way and we’ll likely receive it in another week or so. Are you worried?”

“A little, yes,” Alistair breathed. “I-I want them to like me, but I don’t want to cause problems.”

“How would you cause problems?” the blonde frowned.

“Because that is what I am best at,” Alistair sighed against his shoulder. “My very existence is a problem, remember? I just… keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. To lose you… lose this. I never imagined I could find someone and be happy. I certainly never thought I’d be lucky enough to have someone like you.”

Cullen’s stomach twisted at his lover’s confession. “Alistair, look at me,” he whispered. His chest constricted painfully to see the melancholy swirling in his hazel gaze. 

“You are _not_ a problem and you will never lose me. My family already likes you, and they _will_ love you. Want to know why?” The older boy nodded slowly and Cullen smiled in response. 

“Because _I_ love you.” Alistair returned his smile tentatively at Cullen’s confident assurance. 

“Remember what you said to me the day we met? Templars give up their surnames and walk away from their old lives to serve the Maker.” He smiled kindly, tightening his hold on Alistair’s waist. “I never expected _this_ could be possible any more than you did. I knew joining the Order would mean I would never marry. My family knew that, as well. It will thrill them to learn I’m not alone. That I have someone to stand with me, on the field and off, and they will _not_ care that I love a man instead of an insipid girl.” 

Alistair snorted with a smug grin. “Insipid? Better not let any of the women in the abbey hear you say that.”

Grinning, Cullen shrugged nonchalantly, amber eyes twinkling with mirth. “Meh. Insipid, vapid, shallow - same difference, really. I’m not interested in the flighty attention of kitchen maids whose infatuation changes as often as they change their socks.”

Alistair laughed outright as he enveloped the slightly shorter boy in a crushing embrace. Deep down he knew Cullen’s family wouldn’t have a problem with their relationship, but after a lifetime of being a shameful secret, it was hard to reconcile acceptance so freely given.

“I know, I’m sorry for being such a worry wort. I love you,” he murmured in his ear. Stepping back with a grin, he threaded their fingers together. “Come on, I promised Mother we’d stop by before training.” 

Slipping out of their room and into the side passage, they dashed to the kitchen. Margie greeted them with joyous hugs, patting their cheeks fondly when they released her. Waving them to a side counter, she unveiled a covered platter to reveal a cheesecake and quickly cut a slice for them to share. 

“All right, you two, I need opinions on this. It’s a new recipe and I know you’ll be honest with me.” The boys’ eyes lit up at the sight of the decadent treat as she handed them each a spoon. 

“What’s the occasion? You don’t normally make desserts,” asked Alistair. 

Scooping a bite, he held the plate aloft and waited for Cullen, smiling lightly as they sampled it together. Alistair’s eyelids fluttered shut with a moan as the airy filling melted on his tongue and Cullen mumbled “‘oly ’aker” around a mouth full. 

Margie clapped excitedly next to them. “Oh, I’m so glad! That crust has taken me a week to get right! It’s for First Day, Alistair. I have time before the new year and it’s been some time since I made a cheesecake, so I’m using the occasion to debut a new recipe.” 

Biting her lip uncertainly, she asked, “It’s not too floral, is it? Sometimes rose and elderflower together can be overwhelming.”

Shaking their heads in tandem, the older boy shoved another bite in his mouth, his spoon already diving in for a third, but Cullen knocked it aside with a playful scowl to prevent him from eating the entire slice. Alistair rumbled an apology and sheepishly let the blonde have the next one, alternating until there was nothing left.

Setting the plate on the counter, Alistair reached out to gingerly brush away the stray crumbs trapped in the corner of Cullen’s mouth. The other boy’s breath hitched at the motion, oblivious to the silence that descended in the usually rowdy kitchen; his attention wholly focused on Alistair as he leaned in, both sighing happily when their lips met. 

It was soft and unhurried; a simple slide of lips neither could resist. 

Cullen wasn’t sure if the sweetness was Alistair or dessert or a combination of the two, but it was perfect. He would have been content to never stop. When Alistair pulled back, he saw the same desire in his molten gaze and resolved to pick up where they left off later.

Margie chortled across the room, rousing the boys from their enamored stare. As she dried her hands on her apron, Alistair noted the missing plate and spoons, curiously realizing he didn’t recall her taking them. Cullen reached the same conclusion while registering the absolute silence of the maids with a furious blush. Snatching the older boy’s hand, he dragged him towards the door. 

“Ahhh, right, training now! So, we’ll… just go. See you, Margie! Thanks for the cake!”

“Bye!” hollered Alistair, laughing hysterically as Cullen hauled him from the room. 

They barely crossed the threshold when the kitchen exploded into a cacophony of sound once more. The boys heard Margie shout over the din before rounding the corner. 

“Yes, yes! I know you’re broken-hearted, but you’ll be broken elsewhere if you don’t get to work on dinner, so help me!” 

Slipping into the still-empty training room with loud snickers, the boys leaned against the wall to catch their breath. Yet whenever they seemed to be calming, they would make eye contact again, sending them into fresh peals of laughter. By the time the other recruits began trickling in for training, the boys were propping each other up by the shoulder, tears streaming across their cheeks, making inarticulate noises intended to be words. The recruits watched in amusement as the pair lost all composure, sinking to the ground with hands still clasped, unruffled by their audience. 

Everyone knew they were together. Any suspicions the others harbored about them were confirmed three weeks ago when the boys entered the dining hall for breakfast holding hands with bashful smiles. It surprised no one; most having assumed they were lovers long before they actually were. There had always been a harmony between them - even the younger recruits who didn’t know their history from the beginning noticed it.

They weren’t the only couple in the ranks, merely the only ones open about their relationship. Yet a few wistful gazes passed among the others as they observed the free affection between the two warriors on the ground. 

Alistair reached out when their laughter subsided, wiping away the blonde’s tears with a blinding smile. Keeping his voice hushed, he murmured, “Well, then… cat’s _really_ out of the bag now.”

Cullen snorted and buried his face against his lover's shoulder. “Once it’s out, you can’t put an angry cat back in, either.”

“Nope,” Alistair popped the ‘p’ with a smirk. “Especially with the way those girls gossip. Guess we just have to deal with it. We _did_ say we wanted to stop hiding.”

Raising his index finger grandly, Cullen mumbled into his tunic. “We also told my family, remember? We have to face facts, Alistair.”

The auburn warrior snickered, resting his chin atop Cullen’s curls. “And what are the facts?”

The younger boy’s shoulders shook with renewed mirth and Alistair’s grin nearly split his face in half as Cullen struggled to speak. “We’re-” snort “- _official!”_

Crowing with laughter, he wrapped his arms around the blonde and tugged him in a tight embrace. Snuggling into his hold, Cullen hid his bright smile from the crowd of onlookers, contentedly enveloped in the powerful grip with sunlit musk washing over him. 

Cullen’s heart sped up with every inhale, and he was certain Alistair could feel the erratic pulse against his chest. Unable to resist any longer, the blonde lifted his head and angled for a kiss, but was brought up short by the ring of armored boots in the hallway. Leaning back with a sigh, he helped Alistair rise and shot a sideways glance to the crowd doing a poor job pretending _not_ to be observing their interaction.

Turning to walk away, Cullen found himself jerked back, his startled yelp swallowed by Alistair’s lips. The recruits erupted into immature whoops and cheers behind them, causing both of them to smile into their brief embrace. 

Once they separated, the others circled around heartily clapping the pair on the back. The Knights did not comment on the ruckus when they arrived, though they could well imagine what caused it. Gossip traveled quickly, but even without the monastery’s grapevine, the smoldering glances shared by their top two recruits would have provided the answer. 

Ser Tabor and Ser Erlic ambled toward the arms chest against the back wall, taking a moment to stamp down their grins and avoiding eye contact with each other lest they burst into laughter with the recruits. Erlic recovered first and faced the quieting crowd with a pair of daggers in hand. 

“Today we work on how to fight a duelist. Team up! One will use sword and shield, the other daggers. Mind the rules, lads. I don’t want any cracked skulls today.”

“Ser!” 

The boys squared off into their usual teams, scrambling to arm themselves appropriately for the day’s lesson. There were fourteen in their training group, spreading out on either side of the chamber into seven pairs. Cullen strapped a shield to his left arm, biting his cheek to restrain his ridiculous grin as Alistair sauntered over, casually flipping a set of blades.

“Damn you and your ambidextrousness,” the younger boy muttered under his breath. 

Alistair’s hazel eyes flashed with amusement, voice low and sultry when he replied. “I’ve not heard you complain in the past.” 

Cullen had the decency to blush, though his gaze darkened considerably as Alistair teased him. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he took up his stance, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet and gave the older boy a saccharine smile. 

“I’m all yours,” he taunted.

Alistair’s breath hitched and Cullen mentally tallied a point for himself. Tilting his head with a lopsided grin, the older warrior twirled the daggers as though he’d been born with them. Without warning he leapt forward, left arm extended, sliding his knife along the sword edge, spinning around the blonde. 

“You bet your ass, you’re mine,” he purred, chuckling when Cullen turned to find him already gone. 

_Damn it!_

Whirling around, the blonde rocked forward with the momentum, sidestepping right to maneuver alongside Alistair and tap his thigh with the flat of his blade. Keeping his shield up, he spun on the balls of his feet, tracking Alistair as he twirled in the opposite direction. They shared a secretive smile as they faced off again, aware they were toying with one another. 

Cullen rolled his shoulders in anticipation of his next move. Without the weight of a shield to compensate for, Alistair was preternaturally fast, but this time he was prepared. He enjoyed the challenge of fighting the warrior in varied combat and it sent flutters of excitement through him when his lover rushed him.

Shuffling right, he felt the light graze of blades rake his shield and smirked in satisfaction with the timely evasion. Keeping his bent stance, Cullen leapt forward, swinging his left arm out, aiming to catch a dagger with the shield edge and send it flying. Alistair avoided the move with a roll, popping into a crouch almost directly behind the blonde. 

Twirling again, his metal shield reverberated under the rapid fire attack of the older boy’s blunted blades. Sliding back, Alistair grinned at Cullen, a mischievous twinkle in his hazel eyes as he bounced excitedly on his feet.

With a teasing shake of his head, the younger boy smiled. “You’re enjoying this.”

“You have no idea,” he quipped.

Circling one another, the boys looked for an opening, but Cullen’s defenses were good. He kept his body angled to prevent his back from being exposed, his shield expertly guarding his front, sword arm loose and ready for an attack from any angle. Alistair matched him equally; daggers poised to strike, body coiled like an expectant spring while keeping his flank protected.

Breaking the stalemate, the blonde shot right in a wide arc, hoping to get around the older warrior. But Alistair dropped to the ground, sweeping his leg under Cullen’s feet, knocking him off-balance. Before the younger boy could even register his fall, dragged down by the weight of his shield, a hand caught him in a vice-like grip. 

Cullen stared at Alistair agog. Already upright with strong fingers wrapped securely around his forearm, balancing the blonde’s large frame inches above the stone floor, when seconds ago he crouched on the floor.

Sputtering incredulously, Cullen remarked in annoyance. “Were you a rogue in another life? Or perhaps a cat with those reflexes of yours?”

A lazy smile graced the golden warrior’s face, and he flicked his eyes meaningfully sideways. It took Cullen a moment to catch on until he followed the gaze toward his lover’s tapered ears. His amber eyes widened, mouth rounding into an ‘o’ as comprehension dawned. 

“That is… _unfair_ ,” he muttered. “No wonder you’re so damned fast.” 

Alistair laughed warmly as he pulled the other boy upright. “Probably one of the few perks, actually. Well, that and I can see in the dark,” he mumbled quietly.

Leaning closer, Cullen hissed, “You never told me that!”

“You never asked,” he replied with feigned innocence.

Narrowing his eyes, the blonde whispered. “So that night you told me about your father - the first time we _purposefully_ shared a bed because I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, you could see? How have I known you for almost two years and not known this?”

Alistair grimaced guiltily, his hand clasping Cullen’s forearm with more force as he implored in hushed tones. “I couldn’t see that night either, I swear! I don’t want you to think I tricked you into bed with me. There has to be _some_ light for me. I’m not fully elven, after all.” 

Cullen’s expression instantly softened. “I don’t think you tricked me, Alistair. I’m sorry if it sounded like I did.”

The taller boy sighed in relief. “I-I’m not used to talking about that _aspect_ of myself. Before you, I never talked about myself at all. Honestly, it's so normal for me I forget sometimes not everyone else can.”

Nodding in understanding, Cullen replied. “It makes sense that you wouldn’t talk about it and I’m not angry. I’m... jealous, more than anything. And very intrigued.” He appraised the boy’s hazel eyes with interest. 

“Uh, oh, I know that look,” Alistair joked. 

The blonde smirked as he took up his position again. “And what look is that?” he asked.

Alistair circled wearing a smug grin. “Oh, you know, _hungry._ ” Cullen’s smirk widened, but he didn’t respond.

Flicking his shield in challenge, Cullen spun when Alistair sprinted around him, nearly catching the older boy with his blade. The taller boy immediately whirled, his dagger sliding along the edge of Cullen’s metal guard. The blonde pushed him into the center of the room, and Alistair knew the game was over.

Rolling around him, Alistair swept his foot out again to catch him, but Cullen never made the same mistake twice and slid aside before he could upset his balance. Even though Alistair was faster with daggers, he worried about his ability to keep the younger boy at bay without a shield to guard him against the sheer determination in those piercing amber eyes.

Moving in unison, Cullen’s sword rose for the first time during their spar and parried his blows easily. Alistair gained ground, but no clear advantage. Leaping left to avoid the shield bash, he circled around, but the blonde twirled and their blades clashed again. 

Alistair trapped Cullen’s sword between his daggers and pressed his sword arm back, hoping to unbalance or disarm him. The brief flash of regret on Cullen’s face was all the warning Alistair had before a foot slid under him and sent him tumbling. 

Metal rang out in the training room, as both warriors tossed aside their blades, and Alistair grasped Cullen’s extended forearm on the way down. Positions reversed, Cullen balanced Alistair’s weight to keep him from hitting the ground. Stunned by their synchronization and the sudden appearance of taut muscles under strong fingers, their gazes locked, rapidly darkening as they maintained their pose. 

They forgot about their audience until cheers erupted around them, startling them from their reverie. Blushing, Cullen yanked Alistair to his feet, noting the recruits ceded the floor to them during their spar. 

Ser Tabor approached them with an approving smile. “Well done. We were about to call a draw. You’re both adept in offensive and defensive tactics, even when using unfamiliar weapons. Alistair, I’d like to see you use dual weapons more often for a change of pace and to show the others how to fight with that technique. You never know when you could lose your shield.”

“Ser.” Alistair inclined his head in acceptance of his new mentorship.

“Can you wield two longswords or just daggers?”

Alistair shuffled his feet, his bronze skin darkening under the Knight’s scrutiny. “Ahem, I _can_ use swords, Ser, but I’m not as proficient with them.” Cullen’s eyes widened at the admission and he glanced sharply at his lover.

Tabor grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Not to worry, we’ll get you there.” Turning to face the assembled recruits, he announced, “Switch weapons and change partners. Can’t have you lads falling into a routine.”

Cullen passed his shield to Alistair wordlessly and collected the scattered daggers, checking their weight and balance before accepting them with a nod. Alistair caught his wrist as he passed, biting his lip nervously, guilt dancing in his hazel eyes. 

“I’m not purposely keeping secrets, though it might seem that way. I picked up dual wielding to challenge myself -”

“During our separation,” Cullen interjected. The taller boy relaxed slightly and nodded.

“I haven’t gone back to it, which is stupid in hindsight, because I need to be skilled in all forms of combat. But I want to train with you, too. If the Knights want me to teach the others, I will, but I want to make sure you’re adept at it.” Whispering with a blush, he continued, “Your ability to protect yourself in any fight matters more to me than theirs.”

The blonde smiled. “I’d like that. And we both need to work on archery, since neither of us has much luck hitting the target if our weapon doesn’t have a hilt attached to it.”

Alistair snorted lightly, his expression clearing with his lover’s understanding attitude. With a gentle squeeze of fingers, they separated to spar with the others for most of the afternoon. The Knights guaranteed all the boys dueled with multiple partners and differing weaponry, releasing them when they started wilting like under watered plants.

Slinking off to the bathing room, the pair cleaned up and cleared out as quickly as they could, rolling their eyes at the good-natured ribbing of their fellows as they left the steam-filled chamber. Entering their room with a contented sigh, they slipped on cloth breeches and crawled into Cullen’s bed with a shared laugh.

Pulling the younger boy close to his chest, Alistair murmured sleepily, “I hope you don’t mind, but I need a nap.”

Smothering a small yawn, Cullen nodded. “Me, too, and I didn’t expend as much energy as you did rolling all over the floor.”

Chuckling, Alistair nuzzled the boy’s flaxen curls affectionately. “Maker, that is more exhausting than it looks. I haven’t used that trick enough to realize it until today.” 

“Mmm, nap now, talk later,” Cullen slurred, already giving into sleep. Brushing a kiss along his temple, Alistair mumbled in assent, tucking Cullen under his chin and descending into the Fade. 

A couple of hours later, the dinner bell clanged through the abbey, rousing Alistair with the promise of food to fill his grumbling stomach. Glancing at the blonde wrapped around him peacefully walking in dreams, his heart leapt with affection and he wished he didn’t have to wake him.

“Cullen, love, time to get up,” he murmured against his ear. “We’ll miss dinner if we don’t get a move on and I know you’re as hungry as I am.”

The blonde stretched his legs, but refused to open his eyes. Snuggling closer to his chest at the rumbling of his voice, Cullen sighed. “Yes, but that means leaving you and I don’t want to.”

Alistair smiled indulgently, his fingers tracing light circles along the younger boy’s spine. “Unfortunately, you have to, considering the dining hall is in the middle of the monastery. But after we eat, we can return here with full bellies and fall into bed together again.”

Lips smiled against his skin, and Alistair shivered at the simple intimacy. “That is true. Though, I intend to attend evening vigil and so should you.”

The older boy hated to admit Cullen was right. Sighing heavily, Alistair fiddled with the curls at his nape. “Let’s make a deal. We’ll get out of bed and dress for dinner. Afterwards, I’ll go to vigil with you and then we come back here and pick up where we left off.”

Pulling out of his embrace, the blonde nodded. “Alright. Let’s hurry before they start without us then.” 

Stealing a quick kiss, they rolled out of the bed to scramble into leather breeches to protect their knees for hours of prayer and tossed on tunics and boots. Dashing through the hallways, their laughter heralded their arrival before they burst breathlessly into the dining hall and plopped into their usual seats with warm smiles.

The rest of their evening involved hours of chanting to improve their mental focus while the Knights used various techniques to distract the recruits. Loud coughs, standing too close, dropping gauntlets on the stone floor, and one Alistair suspected was Ser Rolf used a feather to tickle their ears and neck. If any recruit broke concentration, they had to restart their recitation and the Knights would redouble their efforts to cause them to stumble. 

It was an interminable night and, at times, Alistair feared his efforts were futile, but he ignored the onslaught of distractions in the end. Blearily coming to from his hypnosis when the chime echoed throughout the chamber, he roused Cullen from his devotionals. Together, they wearily trudged to their room and stripped for bed.

Exhausted, the boys tumbled into bed an hour before midnight, too mentally and physically worn out for anything more than cuddling, but perfectly content all the same.

**Haring 4, 9:25 Dragon**

A week and a half later, as the boys studied military strategy in the library, the gentle clearing of a throat beside them drew their attention. Popping out of their chairs in unison, the boys bowed to the Revered Mother. 

“Alistair, Cullen, good afternoon. I was hoping I might borrow you for a minute.” 

“Certainly, Revered Mother,” Cullen replied. 

Sharing surprised glances, the boys dutifully followed the woman. She did not lead them to her office as they expected, but slipped into an empty classroom. Closing the door behind them, the elderly woman smiled warmly.

“I didn’t want to give you these with so many eyes watching.” 

Pulling a stack of letters bundled together with twine from her voluminous robes, she passed them to Cullen. His eyes widened as he quickly rifled through the envelopes - letters addressed to him and Alistair from every member of his family, evidenced by the varying handwriting. 

“Are those -” Alistair started, but his voice gave out before he could finish his sentence. 

“Yes,” Cullen choked. “Every one of them. They wrote to each of us.”

The Revered Mother’s smile widened. “I believe you boys require the afternoon off. You seem a little _off-kilter_ to me. I hope the rest will improve your health in time for dinner, but for now I suggest you go to your room.”

“Thank you, Your Reverence,” breathed Alistair, speaking for both of them as Cullen was too overcome with emotion to answer.

“Of course, my dear,” she replied, her blue eyes sparkling. “I am thankful they arrived before the first snowfall. Now, off with you.”

With quick bows, the boys exited the room and used the deserted side passages to avoid being seen as they snuck into the dormitory and slid into their chamber. Alistair’s weak knees gave out, and he almost missed the edge of his bed as he collapsed, reaching for Cullen with trembling hands. His lover plopped mutely beside him, deftly untying the double knot holding the stack together and doled out their letters.

“Wh-whose should we open first? Do we open them together? Oh Maker, I’m so nervous,” rambled Alistair.

Chuffing a laugh that was more breath than sound, Cullen rifled through Alistair’s stack, pulling out one that matched the handwriting on his top letter. 

“That’s from my mother,” he whispered. 

Alistair blanched at the simple pronouncement, but he nodded resolutely and carefully cracked the seal as Cullen did the same beside him. The penmanship was beautiful - flowing and heavily slanted. 

“She’s left-handed,” the older boy murmured, drinking in the words swimming in his watery vision.

Cullen nodded. “Yes, she is.”

In silence the boys read their letters, but halfway through Cullen snatched his hand, and Alistair noted the tears on his cheeks, a stark contrast to the grin growing on his face. Alistair audibly choked at the end of his and Cullen squeezed him fiercely, a knowing gleam in his eyes when the other boy met his gaze.

“I-I… she… _Maker’s breath_.” 

Leaning close, Cullen captured his lips. It was a passionate kiss, full of emotion that words alone could not express. Alistair responded in kind, their tears mingling on their skin, free hands tangling in hair to press them impossibly close. When they separated breathlessly, Alistair fell into pools of molten amber. 

Bringing their foreheads together, Cullen whispered, “Welcome to the family, Alistair. I told you they would love you. You have Margie, myself, and the entire Rutherford clan to call family now. I swear on the Maker, you’ll never be alone again.”

Alistair cried harder, as joy, peace, love, acceptance, excitement, and a thousand other emotions that didn’t have names threatened to drown him. Cullen tugged him into his lap, so he could bury his face against his shoulder and release the dam on his feelings. The blonde’s own tears continued to flow as his mother’s heartwarming words echoed through his mind.

_You are so loved, Cullen, by everyone here at home, but now another loves you. Cared for and protected by one, who we know through you, is kind and noble and good. You are not one to give your feelings away lightly, which is how I know he is worthy of you. It gladdens my heart to know you have found someone you trust enough to be yourself._

_I shall give thanks daily to the Maker for such a blessing. I’ve only ever wished for you to find fulfillment in life and it seems the Templar Order held more for you than any of us could have imagined. Be good to one another, darling. Love is a precious, fragile thing, yet incredibly strong given the chance._

Hiccuping slightly, Alistair’s hoarse voice interrupted the sound of their sniffles and soft sobs. “Your mother… welcomed me to the family. She said she _loves_ me because I make you happy.”

Nodding in the crook of his neck, Cullen murmured, “She said much the same to me.”

“I love you,” Alistair whispered. “Thank you for loving me. For telling the people in your life about me. For giving me _so much more_ than I ever dreamed of having.”

Cullen’s fists balled in Alistair’s tunic as he clung to him, wishing his actions alone could speak for him and tell the older boy it was the other way around. But his tongue had tied itself in knots. After a few quiet heartbeats, he regained the ability to speak.

“I love you, too,” he breathed. 

A simple response, but it was enough. 

Cupping Cullen’s face in his rough hands, the auburn-haired boy kissed him tenderly, as though he understood everything the other wanted to say, but couldn’t articulate. Andraste, he probably did. 

Pulling away, Alistair gave him a lopsided grin. “Should we read the others?” Cullen returned the smile with a nod.

Sprawling on the bed, they read snippets of their letters to one another, giggling and brushing aside tears as they read them once and then a second time, eventually switching their letters between them and repeating the process. 

“Humph,” Cullen playfully groused as he read Mia’s letter to Alistair. “She never calls me ‘dear brother’ in anything but a sarcastic tone, yet she’s practically doting on you.”

Smirking over Rosalie’s letter to Cullen, the older boy teased, “We already know the effect I have on Rutherford's extends to your sisters. You’re just her brother, but I am the golden one.”

Snorting, Cullen jibed, “Only because they don’t know you the way I do.”

“True,” Alistair agreed with a grin. “If we ever have the chance to go to Honnleath on leave once we’re stationed, I promise to be on my best behavior to maintain the illusion.”

“Maintain the -” Cullen halted his derision of Alistair’s self-deprecating humor, his eyes growing impossibly wide. “You… would go to the ass-end of Ferelden to visit my family?”

Threading their fingers together, Alistair’s skin darkened under his blush, but he held Cullen’s gaze. _“Our_ family - and yes, I would. I’ll remind you we are both from Redcliffe Arling and it’s pretty damn rural. If you’re from the ass-end of Ferelden, then so am I.”

The blonde scoffed. “Redcliffe proper is an actual town, though. Honnleath doesn’t even qualify as a village. It’s a hamlet surrounded by sheep and druffalo.” Cullen chuckled lightly, squeezing the fingers tangled with his. “Which is why it means so much to me that you would go there. For them and for me.”

“I would do anything for you and our family. _Anything,_ Cullen. It’s because of you and Margie that I even have one now and I’d like to meet them… one day.” Alistair carefully set aside the scattered parchment and closed the distance between them on the bed.

Cullen’s eyes misted over for the hundredth time, his voice strangled when he answered. “I want you to, as well. We’ll go one day.”

“Yes, we will,” Alistair vowed, sealing it with a sweet kiss.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you caught the reference to the elderflower and rose flavored cheesecake and thought I was being too heavy-handed, you are only half right. It is a real medieval cheesecake recipe and I was laying it on a bit thick to include it in the story, but at least it's not complete headcanon. Find the recipe [here!](http://www.nutmegsseven.co.uk/blog/2014/05/sambocade-medieval-elderflowerhtml)
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful bestie, **Kittimau** who beta'd this chapter for me! I appreciate your help and encouragement sooo much!


	9. Anniversary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up for 7k of fluff and smut. I hope you have all enjoyed the syrupy sweet goodness - the next couple (few?) chapters will have angst.

* * *

**Drakonis 10, 9:26 Dragon**

False dawn warmed the horizon. The pink hue faintly streamed through the awkward angle of their window into their room. It provided enough light, however, for rich amber eyes to drink in the display that greeted him. Golden skin softly padding hardened muscle, auburn tresses sprouting in myriad angles on the pillow, chiseled features with a hint of stubble relaxed in sleep.

 _Maker’s breath_.

Alistair always called him beautiful, but he had _nothing_ on the older warrior. Cullen knew every freckle, every mole, every scar on the other boy’s body, and he worshipped them all, because each one told a story as unique as Alistair himself.

The freckling upon his nose and shoulders spoke of a little boy who stayed outside too long swimming with the village boys in Lake Calenhad. He earned the faint scar hidden in his hairline in a minor act of rebellion not long after he arrived at the monastery; an abortive mission to scale the walls and escape that sent the scrawny recruit tumbling out of the tree in the courtyard acting as the ladder. Another wove a tale of a neglected child swiping an apple in the castle kitchens, only to be rewarded with a wooden cutting board crashing onto his bare foot, shattering bone. It required the aid of Redcliffe’s castle mage to properly heal the damage, leaving a slight depression on the big toe of his right foot to show for his temerity.

Of course, Alistair was intimately familiar with the pattern of Cullen’s skin and could trace every mark on the younger boy’s body better than he probably could now. If someone had told him two years ago when he joined the Templars as a recruit that he would fall in love with his best friend and willingly share a bed with him, he would have called them mad.

Yet what the two of them shared surpassed purely physical desires, running straight to the core of who they were. Impossibly in tune with one another, on the field and off, they didn’t even require words to communicate. An intriguing detail neither of them were consciously aware of until the Revered Mother brought it to their attention a few months ago.

And the pair couldn’t go an entire day without touching. A brush of fingers, a passionate kiss, an affectionate hug, a shoulder squeeze. It was an unconscious _need_ to feel connected, every interaction grounding and loving, speaking volumes in a language only they understood.

There was a sense of _completion_ that bound them together.

As Cullen ruminated on how much he adored the warrior, ghosting the tips of his fingers along his bronze skin, his chest tightened painfully at the thought of their inevitable separation. Alistair would be sixteen in a few days, old enough to go on training missions. The Knights scheduled the next one for two weeks out. It would take that long to complete, and they had selected Alistair to be among the group.

Andraste, how would he cope without Alistair? Without his laugh, his sarcastic jibes in the ring, his sweet knuckle rubs during choir practice? And the other hundred things he did daily that Cullen would miss like his own arm.

Arching cat-like, the youth in question curled into the younger boy’s feather-light touch, encouraging him to use more pressure. Cullen smiled indulgently as his lover took his time waking up, drawing out the uninterrupted affection of the morning.

“Mmm, feels good,” he purred.

The blonde smiled wider, his heart leaping in response to the sleep-graveled voice breaking the silence of dawn. On a whim, Cullen rolled the boy on his stomach and straddled his lean hips, heart pounding at the touch of their skin as he turned the gentle caress into a relaxing massage.

“Unnngh, ‘aker, ‘es,” came the pillow-muffled response causing him to chuckle.

He worked diligently to release the pent up tension in Alistair’s shoulders and neck before languidly unfurling his back muscles in preparation of the day. When the golden warrior was utterly boneless, Cullen sprawled across the boy under him, his fingers dancing teasingly along his ribs.

“Good morning, love,” he whispered against his ear, nudging the tapered tip with his nose.

Alistair turned his head with a beatific smile. “Good morning, indeed. Can I wake up like that every day?”

Smiling brightly, Cullen angled his head and pressed his lips to Alistair’s for the first kiss of the day, only answering after their lungs protested the need for oxygen.

“If I did that every morning, how would I be able to make our anniversary special?”

In an instant, Cullen found himself on his back, his head at the foot of the bed, smothered by an exuberant Alistair. Hazel eyes glimmered with unshed tears, his chest rising rapidly as emotion overwhelmed him. Swallowing hard, he ran a trembling hand through flaxen curls, careful not to snag any overnight tangles.

“You… remembered,” Alistair breathed. “I-I thought I was being too soft remembering the day we… I never expected that you would -”

A finger pressed against his lips halted his torrent of words. Cullen shook his head with a tender smile. “Of course, I remembered. I could never forget the best day of my life, Alistair.”

He stared at Cullen in wonder, awed by the unbridled affection swirling in pools of amber. Fingertips grazed his cheek in a gentle caress, sending shivers of delight along his spine, and Alistair could only sigh his name before capturing the lips tailor made for his.

Merciful Andraste - he loved Cullen with every fiber of his being. The boy in his arms was the only good thing to happen to him and as long as he could go with him when they took their Vigil, he would learn to be a good Templar. For Cullen. Because he loved him enough to _try_ , and he never wanted to be without him.

Alistair allowed the blonde to reverse their positions, willingly ceding control, caught up in the love washing over him in gentle waves as his partner lavished him with attention. Whispered endearments and praises filled the quiet morning as the couple lost themselves in each other, stealing a few precious moments to carry them through the day before they had to be responsible.

Tangled together, sweaty and sated, they gradually came down from their high. Alistair stole a glance at the boy beside him and found his gaze locked on him. Linking their fingers, he croaked, “C-can we celebrate… our an-anniversary every day? Please?”

Cullen’s curls fluttered across the bedding when he shook his head with a teasing grin. “Remember, love, it wouldn’t be special if we did. Besides, I’m already worried I may be useless in training today.”

Smirking, the older boy replied, “And what could render the mighty Cullen Rutherford useless with a sword, I wonder?”

Alistair’s breath stuttered slightly as Cullen’s gaze flared with heat, holding him captive as the youth closed the minute distance between them. The blonde cupped his cheek tenderly, his slender fingers framing his ear, as he rose slightly to lean over him.

“You,” Cullen breathed.

Alistair’s eyes widened as he gasped. His mouth opened and closed as he floundered for something to say, for some witty remark to fill the silence of Cullen’s confession. He knew Cullen loved him and he believed him, but it still amazed him that such a pure, _genuine_ soul found worth in him.

“Maker’s breath,” the younger boy sighed, “you’re beautiful, you know that?”

Alistair blushed at the sincerity in the statement, ducking his head shyly, but Cullen wouldn’t let him escape. Staring directly into the older boy’s golden-brown depths, he smiled affectionately.

“Yes, you are, Alistair. I know you don’t believe me, but I wish you did. I woke up and _stared_ at you. I do that frequently, actually, because it gives me time to appreciate how perfect you are.”

“Why?” Alistair whispered self-consciously. “I’m nothing compared to you, Cullen.”

Scoffing, the blonde shook his head, settling alongside him. “Please, you beat me in strength and looks. I’m not the only one here who stares at you when you walk into a room, and especially when you walk away.” He chuckled teasingly as Alistair flushed harder. “And when you fight? You are _magnificent_ \- no one can look away. I would know, I’ve watched them ogle you.”

“I don’t know why -”

“Because you are what everyone wants to be as a man. The epitome of strength and beauty. Raw power tempered with warmth. I’m thankful while they fawn over how handsome you are, I’m the only one you trust to see _inside_. It means so much to me. They can look all they want - I don’t care, because I know I’m the only one who holds your tender heart.” Cullen concluded his speech with his hand pressed against his broad chest, feeling the vibrant pounding under his palm.

Alistair smiled softly, his expression still unsure yet hopeful, which was an improvement. Cullen wasn’t worried about his lover developing an inflated ego; he merely wanted him to _have_ one to speak of and bolster his self-confidence.

“Be that as it may,” murmured Alistair, “I am not the only one who has a fair share of admirers, love. They watch you, too. And why wouldn’t they? Even I know I have the perfect warrior in all of Thedas to call mine.”

Cullen snorted softly, but Alistair smiled and tugged him closer, running his hands through the boy’s mess of sweaty curls fondly. “You’re _gorgeous_ and blonde… Maker, I love your hair,” he sighed wistfully as the younger boy flushed handsomely.

“The others frequently grouse they can’t match your grace or your strength on the field. Don’t even get me started on what your singing does to me and half the monastery. Those are only a few things and none of them include what I love about who you are in here.” His bronze hand pressed insistently against the other boy’s chest, cataloging the skipped beats accompanying the blonde’s stunned expression.

“Oh, shut up,” Cullen mumbled a second before his mouth fell on Alistair’s, effectively silencing him. The older boy chuckled into the kiss, pleased to feel his lover’s lips quirk in a telltale smile. When they reluctantly parted, gazes hazy with contentment, Alistair tucked the blonde snuggly under his chin as their breathing synchronized.

“I love you, Alistair” sighed Cullen, threading their long legs together.

Caressing the boy’s cheek reverently with his thumb, Alistair murmured, “I love you, Cullen.”

They ignored the daylight rapidly encroaching on their peace for as long as possible until it was high enough in the sky to finally force them to leave the comfort of their bed. They took turns sponging off in the corner basin; Alistair going second so he could shave and not litter the water with hair.

Cullen dressed while watching him methodically scrape away the nightly growth, repeating the process against the grain to keep the hair from growing in too quickly. Being almost a year younger meant he only shaved once a week or so, but it was a daily chore for Alistair. The older boy would skip a day occasionally knowing Cullen liked the rasp of stubble. Yet he was careful to never let it get too scratchy to be painful or too long to be in danger of becoming a beard. He detested resembling his father more than he already did.

Alistair interrupted his musings, sneaking behind him and wrapping muscular arms around his waist with a whisper. “I have something for you, but you must wait until later to get it.”

Chuckling softly, the younger boy spun in his grasp and wound his arms around the other boy’s neck. “Fair enough. I was planning to give you your gift this evening, as well.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Alistair teased, “There is _more_ to this wonderful anniversary? I am well and truly spoiled.”

“As am I,” breathed Cullen. He brushed a chaste kiss across Alistair’s lips before releasing him. Moving towards the door, he hid his disappointment as the older boy slipped on a tunic and tugged on his boots.

“The bell will ring any minute and I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” Cullen rolled his eyes in minor exasperation as Alistair rocked on his heels, unconsciously skimming his thumbs along the top of his leathers with a wicked smirk. “Not for that! Maker, you’re impossible,” he laughed.

Alistair merely shrugged and followed him out as the bell pealed through the stone halls. “You wouldn’t want me any other way,” he murmured in his ear. “It’s all right, you can’t lie to me.”

“No, I don’t want you any other way,” he agreed. Linking their fingers together, the pair meandered to the dining hall with warm smiles.

* * *

Ser Miles waited for the mid-level recruits to quiet as they lined up on the far edge of the field. The less experienced boys continued their sparring in the training ring uninterrupted. Once the warriors settled, the Knight’s deep voice boomed across the pitch.

“Over the last year you have worked on your mental focus, today we will start putting that training to the test. Templar abilities -” he gave the excited titters in the crowd time to die down with unflappable patience “- Templar abilities, contrary to popular belief, are not magical. Our role is to _counteract_ magic by declaring the world real and denying mages access to the Fade so they cannot cast. As you know, these abilities do not require lyrium to learn or use. Lyrium merely strengthens them.”

Cullen shot a quick glance to Alistair standing ramrod straight next to him; broad shoulders tight and chiseled jaw clenched at the mention of lyrium. He knew the auburn-haired boy did not have a problem with learning Templar abilities. Alistair’s issue rested on the substance that would make them Templars.

During their studies, the Knights informed the recruits daily lyrium use would change them. It would make them infinitely more powerful, but also dependent. They made no secret that all who drank it would eventually lose their mind to the drug; because as everyone knew, non-mages shouldn’t ingest lyrium. They also educated them on the signs of lyrium withdrawal and warned them going without the blue substance once they started taking it was a death sentence.

Like the other boys, Cullen believed the effects of long-term lyrium use were worth the benefits of doing their job effectively. Alistair saw lyrium as a leash - a way to control the Templars. Yet Cullen argued for its virtues in strengthening them, which they would need when facing blood mages and abominations. His auburn-haired lover shook his head, hazel eyes mournful, always the same response quick on his lips whenever they discussed it.

“At what cost, though?”

Cullen tried not to think about it. He had faith in the Order and believed the Chantry would not lead him astray, especially in something so vital. Besides, if they were giving the recruits informed consent about lyrium, then surely, it couldn’t be all bad. How many generations of Templars had come before him and were none the worse for wear?

The appearance of Ser Rolf carrying a strange globe suspended on a metal rod interrupted Cullen’s reverie. The Knight wedged the pole into the soft ground, exiting the pitch at Ser Miles’ gracious nod. Directing the recruits’ attention to the softly glowing orb, their trainer continued.

“We don’t use mages to practice your skills as you learn, instead we use a mana orb enchanted for us by the Tranquil of the Circle. This will help you learn to drain mana. The method for sapping a mage of mana is the same. It is similar to the Silence ability, which you will learn later. Once you have mastered this, then you will move on to cleansing the area of hostile magic using specialized runes instead of magic. Finally, you will progress to Holy Smite and Wrath of Heaven abilities.”

“Just as with any skill, these will take time to learn and become proficient in. However, the more disciplined your mind is, the more you can _focus_ , the easier these talents will be to master. We shall all see how diligent you have been in your vigils today.”

Calling them individually, the recruits stepped forward and Ser Miles patiently explained to each one how to drain the mana from the bauble. Most of the boys present could deplete the orb at least halfway, some almost drained it completely, while a few barely dimmed the ethereal light.

As Alistair waited his turn, he wondered if he would be able to prove his capability. While he didn’t _want_ to be a Templar, he also didn’t want to be a failure in the vocation chosen for him. And after years of not meeting expectations, he didn’t want to continue the trend.

Mentally sighing, he stopped dodging the truth. He didn’t want to disappoint Cullen.

Alistair promised himself he would be diligent in his training so they would have worthy station options after taking their Vigil. If he remained a mediocre recruit, he feared being responsible for sending them to a backwater hamlet - ruining Cullen’s dream and wasting their talent. Both warriors were too damn good for placement in some minor village in the bannorn, whiling away their lives propping open the local Chantry door. He had to prove himself; there was too much to lose if he didn’t.

“Alistair, step forward.”

Well, no time like the present.

The auburn-haired youth strode forward with more confidence than he felt as he took his place next to the Knight. “Alistair, focus on the orb and reach out with your mind,” instructed Ser Miles. “Do you feel the energy pulsing?”

“Like a heartbeat?” Alistair’s eyes were closed in concentration and he missed Ser Miles’ approving smile.

“Just so. Now, concentrate and hold out your dominant hand. What do you feel?”

Extending his right hand with eyes still closed, Alistair immediately answered. “I feel… weight. Warmth.”

Ser Miles arched an eyebrow in surprise at the instantaneous reply, but his voice was neutral when he spoke. “Good. That is the source. Your job is to pull the weight down to nothingness.” The knight paused at Alistair’s scowl, patting his back in gentle encouragement. “Don’t worry lad, it doesn’t hurt the mage, only weakens them so they cannot fight you.”

He continued at the youth’s clipped nod. “Now, keep that weight in your mind and take hold of it, focusing on pulling the mana down and away. As you drain the orb, direct the energy into the ground, so the mage can’t retrieve it.”

Opening his eyes, Alistair focused on the blue globe, his gaze piercing as he exhaled to steady himself. On his next inhale, he curled his fingers, envisioning a fist wrapping around the mana’s core and slowly, methodically, dragged the heat source to the ground. In his mind’s eye, Alistair could see the ball of light thumping with life - he felt the warmth in his palm and commanded it to obey.

Cullen watched with rapt attention as Alistair exerted his superior will over the mana, rendering it void. A broad grin grew across his face as his lover surpassed the others, vibrating with restrained excitement. He clenched his hands, the bite of his nails in his flesh keeping him from shouting and ruining the warrior’s focus.

Alistair continued to lower the hand cupping the pulsing azure glow, watching the light diffuse into the grass until there was no more resistance. Flipping his hand over, he spread his fingers, visualizing the last of the blue tendrils disappearing into the earth - grounded and inert.

The auburn-haired warrior startled at the eruption of sound behind him, blinking at the cessation of heat in his hand. Refocused on reality, he sputtered in disbelief as he stared at the empty orb. Ser Miles clapped his back in hearty congratulations, barely moving aside in time as Cullen slammed into him, crowing in his ear.

Laughing wildly, the blonde pressed a lingering kiss to his cheek. “I knew you could do it,” Cullen exclaimed when he released him.

Flushing under the attention, Alistair moved aside for the next recruit with a bright smile. A crush of boys overwhelmed him with congratulations and begged to know how he did it. Ser Miles cleared his throat loudly and the crowd instantly hushed, controlling their exuberance until the end of the exercise.

There were only three recruits left to go. The next two drained the globe halfway, sweat dotting their brows as they struggled to go further. Alistair could see right away they lacked focus. The moment their concentration slipped, the mana surged with fresh life, like a runner getting a second wind. That’s why the level of concentration exerted and maintained from the beginning was so important, he realized.

Cullen was last, and Alistair’s stomach fluttered with anxiety. He desperately wanted him to do well, but he didn’t want the other boy to feel inept if he couldn’t fully drain the mana. Ser Miles walked the blonde through the process, and the boy asked a few questions that garnered approving nods from the head trainer.

No one in the crowd dared breathe as Cullen extended his right arm and curled his fist, his handsome face impassive. From his angle on the sidelines, Alistair saw the intensity of his amber gaze and the older boy’s knees nearly gave out. It was the face, not of a boy, but a man not to be trifled with - self-assured, unafraid, prepared to exact justice where it was due. If he were a mage and Cullen stared at him like that, decked in full Templar regalia, he would piss his robes.

The glow in the orb rapidly diminished, winking into nothing in less than a minute, much faster than his own exercise. It was effortless for the younger warrior, requiring almost no thought to control. And Alistair had to admit, watching his display of dominance made him warm in places he hoped others wouldn’t notice. Cullen flipped his hand to ground the mana, his features relaxing into his usual jovial expression as the energy dissipated.

Ser Miles congratulated him with a grin, once again stepping aside as Alistair plowed into Cullen, picking him up with a boom of laughter. The blonde chuckled in dazed amazement at his achievement while the other warrior spun him around. When he touched down again, Alistair smiled beatifically at him, anchoring him by his elbows so he wouldn’t topple over.

“Damn, Cullen, that was amazing! You did that faster than any of us!”

Despite the crowd, he cupped the younger boy’s face and kissed him full on the lips. Cullen inhaled sharply at first before relaxing into the embrace and returning it. They’d shared kisses in front of the others before, but not like this. _This_ kiss was passionate and demanding. Strong fingers twisted in hair with no space for a ray of light to pass between them, leaving no doubt to the nature of their relationship. Yet even in their ardor the boys kept it short, separating to raucous whistles and claps behind them.

“Sorry,” Alistair whispered in chagrin. “That was _incredibly_ sexy and I couldn’t help myself.”

Cullen rumbled a low chuckle, his breathing unsteady. “That’s how I felt after watching you. You know I don’t mind. You can kiss me anytime - audience or no.”

The golden warrior’s gaze darkened. “Oh, I plan to.”

“Oy, lovebirds! Can we pick your brain about how you did that or do we need to wait until you get a fucking room?” heckled a voice from the crowd.

“Good thing they share one!” retorted another. Cullen and Alistair shared a heated glance, thinking how _good_ it was _._

Grinning, the pair faced their fellow recruits to explain how they drained the globe. After a detailed breakdown to the others regarding the importance of visualization and maintaining concentration, they stepped aside so the others could continue practicing. Ser Rolf took over the lesson from Ser Miles and recharged the enchanted orb, nodding in dismissal to Alistair and Cullen. Clasping hands, they leisurely strolled off the field and headed inside.

Clearing his throat, Alistair broke the comfortable silence. “I’m surprised how easy the mana drain was today. I never really believed I had the aptitude to be a Templar.”

The blonde squeezed his hand with a warm smile. “I’m not. You’ve always had the ability to succeed, you simply lack confidence. You have a disciplined mind, Alistair, and you’re incredibly bright. I’ve never doubted you or your capabilities.” His smile evolved into a cocky smirk and his amber eyes twinkled merrily when he glanced askance at his lover.

“I enjoyed watching you take control and accomplish what none of the others had been able to. The looks on their faces as you mastered the orb, casually flipping your hand over and grounding the energy as though you’d been doing it all your life!” Cullen exclaimed, causing Alistair’s skin to darken with a furious blush.

“And then you explained your visualization technique, talking about ‘heat’ and ‘weight’ in your palm, and it stunned everyone! Including me, actually. You made it sound so simple and I think many realized they’d been overthinking, but you acted on instinct. That is _talent_ , Alistair, not merely aptitude.”

“I liked your technique, too,” Alistair interjected, desperate to end the enthusiastic accolades. “Snuffing out a candle. It’s very similar, and you did it much faster than the rest of us.”

“Yes, well,” Cullen blushed, “it was everyone’s first time. Speed doesn’t mean better.”

“I beg to differ when our job is tracking down blood mages. You need to sap them pretty quickly, I’d say,” he chuckled in amusement. “It came so naturally to you and the look on your face, controlled and in charge, was quite _affecting._ ”

The younger boy fidgeted uncomfortably, his ivory skin bordering on scarlet with his lover’s praise. Pausing in the dormitory hallway, Alistair lifted Cullen’s chin and held his gaze with a crooked grin.

“We’re terrible. Neither of us can take a compliment,” admitted Alistair.

Ruefully shaking his head, Cullen snickered. “No, we can’t. Let’s just agree we’re both excellent and stop talking about it.”

Wrapping his arms around the other boy with a laugh, Alistair nodded in agreement. “So, what do you want to do before dinner?” he asked, casually swinging his arm across the blonde’s shoulders as they resumed their trek to their room.

“Well, I need to write a letter for -”

“Branson’s birthday. Yes, I just finished mine. Whenever yours is complete, we can send them together. As long as we have them sent no later than two days from now, they should arrive in time.”

Cullen shot the other boy a half-hearted glare as Alistair’s gloated, but his chest overflowed with devotion for the warrior who knew his family well enough he could recite their birthdays off the top of his head. He couldn’t fathom how the Sisters used to believe Alistair was stupid.

Impetuous and desperately seeking attention? Yes. Stupid? No, not in a thousand ages. Temperamental and fierce as a griffon of old, but also intelligent and protective of those he allowed in his life. Alistair cherished his family - _their_ family.

“And what about you? What will you do while I finish the letter to my brother, hmm?”

The auburn-haired boy turned his too-innocent face to Cullen’s as they slipped into their room and closed the door.

“Maybe read a book and never turn a page because I’ll be too distracted staring at you muttering to yourself while you organize your thoughts. Too absorbed by the intense glare you’ll give the evil parchment for not writing itself,” Alistair teased as Cullen’s cheeks pinked.

“Damn you,” the blonde cursed without a trace of malice. His pulse raced as he imagined hazel eyes intently watching him as he worked on a mundane task the other warrior found captivating.

Chuckling, Alistair wrapped his arms around the other boy’s waist, nuzzling his neck affectionately. “Or, I could help you write it and we can exchange gifts before dinner.”

Muscular arms twined around his shoulders and he felt Cullen’s lips curve in a smile against his skin. “I like the sound of that,” he replied.

Gathering their writing supplies, the boys clambered onto Cullen’s bed. To make space for their tall frames, Alistair sat at the head of the bed with Cullen settled between his legs, giving them each an opportunity to see the draft and make adjustments together.

“No, don’t say it like that,” Alistair ribbed as Cullen penned a line. “He’s your brother! Talk to him like you do to me.”

Cullen snorted. “I can’t! You and I have too many private jokes... and innuendo.”

“Hmm, fair point,” mused the older boy as he fiddled with a charcoal stick. “Okay, so I’m a poor example. Talk to him like you do Rupert and Kai. You know, sarcastic and full of lip.”

The blonde laughed richly, swiveling his head to stare into the other boy’s bright gaze. “You like my lip, do you?”

Alistair’s features lit up as he grinned at him. “You know I do. You’re the only one who’s ever been able to keep up with my wit. It's quite an impressive achievement.” His pupils expanded when his eyes flicked to his mouth. “It goes without saying how much I like your _actual_ lips, too,” he murmured huskily.

Closing the minute distance between them, he brushed his lips across the younger boy’s mouth. He leaned back with a muted chuckle as Cullen tried to chase them for a deeper kiss.

“Letter, first. And you always say I’m the one who can’t control myself.” Alistair’s eyes twinkled with mirth as Cullen playfully sulked before returning his attention to the parchment.

After much good-natured teasing and scribbled edits, they drafted a lighthearted birthday missive that captured the clever blonde’s dry wit without sounding stilted. Alistair was sure Branson would laugh himself to tears and his chest filled with affection for Cullen and their family.

“Okay, I’m done with this for the time being,” Cullen announced. “I’ll write the final copy tomorrow, but right now I want to give you your gift!”

Clearing off the bed, the blonde set the writing materials on top of the dresser and dug through one of his drawers until he found what he was searching for with a broad grin. Alistair slid off the bed and shooed the other boy away from the dresser so he could rifle through the top compartment for what he’d concealed among his clothing.

Facing one another with unexpected trepidation, Cullen was the first one to break the silence. Clearing his throat anxiously, he stepped closer to the taller youth with a shy smile, revealing the drawstring pouch secreted behind his back.

“Open it,” Cullen whispered.

Alistair shook his head slightly, showing the blonde the larger pouch he’d been hiding with a blush. “We open them together,” he replied quietly.

Dropping their gazes timidly, the boys switched pouches, allowing their fingers to graze in the exchange and simultaneously opened their gifts.

A deep red bauble stared at Alistair from inside the linen and his eyes widened marginally in surprise. Tipping the pouch, he caught the medium-sized gemstone, rubbing his thumb across the polished surface. Flipping it over, he choked slightly and glanced at Cullen in time to see him pull out his present.

The blonde stared at the wide band in his hand. A handsome wrist cuff in rich brown leather with laces underneath to adjust it to the correct fit. His fingers traced the hand-tooled engraving in admiration until a small gasp escaped him when he recognized the symbol in the center.

Alistair chuckled in astonishment. “It seems we had similar ideas.”

“Yes,” Cullen croaked, meeting the other boy’s gaze with a bright flush covering his face and neck. “It looks that way.” Clearing his throat nervously, he continued, “A sailor’s knot, if I’m not mistaken…”

The older boy’s skin darkened with a furious blush. “You’re not,” he rumbled quietly. Running his finger along the stone, Alistair swallowed hard and murmured. “An ouroboros? For -”

“Don’t forget the stone itself,” Cullen broke in. Alistair’s brow furrowed slightly as he studied the red stone, trying to identify it. “It’s carnelian,” Cullen supplied in a hushed tone.

The golden warrior’s eyebrows shot into his hairline with the boy’s pronouncement. Clutching the stone in his fist, Alistair’s nostrils flared when he met the younger boy’s gaze.

“ _Maker’s breath_ , Cullen. I could kiss you,” he rasped.

“I’m standing right here,” the blonde answered breathlessly.

“Praise Andraste for that,” Alistair growled, pulling him close. He kissed him with desperation, trembling violently in the other boy’s hold as an overwhelming rush of exhilaration suffused him. Cullen supported the taller warrior and kept him steady even as he quaked in the face of his own stunned elation.

Displaying their incredible intuitiveness, they chose gifts for one another reflecting a deep and eternal bond. The sailor's knot on Cullen’s cuff symbolized two lives becoming one; though simple to tie, it was one of the strongest knots under pressure once entwined. Alistair’s stone corresponded to passionate love, but also masculinity, which the golden warrior had in equal measure. There was no way either could have known about their gifts. They received individual permission to go to the village last month whenever the other was occupied in a full afternoon vigil.

Panting heavily when they separated, Alistair’s arms tightened around the other boy as a sudden need for reassurance welled within him. He knew Cullen loved him, but Maker, he needed to hear it again.

Croaking hoarsely, he queried, “Forever? Do you mean that?”

Cullen smiled tenderly as he reached out to brush away Alistair’s tears. “Of course, I mean that.” Maintaining his low timbre, he pressed their foreheads together. “I never want anyone else, Alistair. Ever. Believe me when I say that.”

Staring into mesmerizing amber, the other boy studied them for any hint he might change his mind. That Cullen might decide he was too foolish, too loud, too _Alistair,_ and leave him behind when he took his Vigil. But there was nothing except love and devotion.

Exhaling raggedly, Alistair basked in the warmth radiating through his body. Cupping the blonde’s face with unsteady hands, he breathed, “Neither do I. It's you or no one, Cullen.”

With a shy smile Cullen took Alistair’s left hand in his own and gazed fondly at the blood-red stone in his large palm, tracing the wyvern devouring its tail.

“You know the coin Branson gave me when I left home? ‘For luck,’ he said.” Alistair’s mouth quirked and he nodded faintly. “I’m not superstitious, mind you, but I thought a good luck charm couldn’t hurt when you go on your first training mission. The ouroboros symbolizes eternity while carnelian represents love, but also bravery and success, which every warrior needs in battle. I know it's ridiculous, but I want you to have every edge possible since I won’t be there to guard your back,” Cullen murmured in embarrassment.

Alistair tilted his chin up, the gentle expression on his face easing the younger boy’s anxiety. “It’s not ridiculous at all. It’s thoughtful and caring and it means so much more to me than I have words to express. If I can’t have you alongside me, at least I’ll have a piece of you to carry with me.”

Pressing a kiss to the blonde’s knuckles, Alistair curled their joined fingers around the stone for a heartbeat before releasing him and slipping the token in his pocket. Plucking the cuff from Cullen’s grasp, he rolled up the boy’s sleeves, shooting him a cheeky smirk before placing it on his left wrist and efficiently lacing the cords.

“I swear, you’re a mind reader,” Cullen said, shaking his head fondly with a warm smile.

Alistair chuckled. “No, I just know you. It’s your shield arm and won’t be in the way when you fight. It’s the same side I would choose,” he stated.

The blonde ran his fingers reverently along the symbol embossed in the leather as the telltale burn of salt water pricked his eyelids.

“Alistair -”

“We were friends first,” the older boy interjected quietly, gently bringing the blonde flush against him. “And when I was an idiot and feared I lost you - you forgave me. We built on that and I’m a better person for having you in my life. Two separate knots tied into one, stronger together than when we are apart, and that is how I _know_ , Cullen. I will never love anyone the way I love you.”

Holding the younger boy’s watery gaze intently, Alistair declared, “I so swear.”

“Oh, _fuck_.” Cullen’s breath gusted out of him in a rush and he clutched Alistair for support.

Smirking, the warrior’s hazel eyes melted to liquid gold. “Trust me, love, we’ll get to that.”

Huffing a quiet laugh in reply, Cullen leaned into his arms with a sigh. “Only you, Alistair, I so swear.”

Lifting his head in invitation, Cullen’s lips met the other boy’s in a searing kiss. He wasn’t even aware they’d moved until they tumbled into someone’s bed; it didn’t matter whose it was. All that mattered was the glorious press of the taller boy against his body as that witty tongue danced with his, robbing him of all reason.

Rocking his hips along his lover’s thigh, Alistair swallowed Cullen’s pleading whine. The older boy shuddered in the blonde’s powerful embrace when his fingers latched in his short hair. With a groan, Alistair relinquished his mouth, his full lips traveling to his ear, giving away his barely contained desire with ragged pants.

“I love you so much, Cullen.”

Cupping his ass, Cullen steadied his lover as he answered with a languid roll of his hips, coaxing a ragged moan from the boy above him. Cullen's voice was more breath than sound when he spoke.

“I know, Alistair. You show me every day. I hope I do the same for you.”

“You do.” The words wavered in desperate affirmation as he kissed along the blonde’s neck, raking his teeth across the junction of Cullen’s neck and shoulder. “I want -”

“Maker, _please._ Waiting is torture,” Cullen responded impatiently. Alistair chuckled softly as his lover tugged on his tunic. Sitting up briefly, he tossed it aside and helped the boy under him shuck his own. He reached to remove the cuff, but a hand stopped him.

“Leave it,” the blonde whispered.

Alistair stared at him, his chest rising rapidly and his mouth suddenly dry, but he forced the logical part of his brain to reply. “Are you sure? I would hate to see it ruined.”

Cullen’s skin flushed a lovely shade of red, but the determination in his gaze made Alistair’s stomach flutter with want. “Just this once. I don’t want to take it off right now. It… means too much.”

Fire burned along his veins as the sentiment behind Cullen’s words burrowed in his chest. Eyes locked, he leaned down until his lips were millimetres from his lover’s. Exchanging harsh breaths for a heartbeat, Alistair’s baritone twined around them like velvet.

“Your desire is my command.”

Pupils blown wide, Cullen tilted his chin and captured the full lips hovering over him. His hands wrapped snugly around the taller warrior to settle their overheated torsos together, pulling heady moans from them both. Nimble fingers made quick work of the laces of their breeches, kicking off their boots in a rush to satisfy their need for more intimate contact.

Groaning as their bare bodies pressed together, calloused hands moved feverishly between them, tongues and teeth trailed across salty skin, love nips blooming in their wake. Falling into a rhythm they knew well, ardent praises and ragged curses filled the room, for once uncaring who might be loitering in the dormitory and overhear them.

Everything was lightning and fire. Passionate kisses gave way to gasps as oxygen-deprived lungs pleaded for air. Blunt nails raked along taut muscles as strong hands scrambled for purchase across sweat-slicked skin. The last time they’d experienced anything so all-consuming was Satinalia when they declared their love for one another. It radiated from their marrow, from the _core_ of who they were - the oaths between them intensifying their connection into a conflagration.

Lost in molten gold, Cullen’s stomach fluttered as he drank in the flush on the other boy’s cheeks and full lips moving wordlessly. His breath burned from his lungs as the warrior sighed his three favorite words, bringing him instantly to the edge. Alistair’s chest constricted, entranced by flaxen curls plastered to his forehead and amber eyes subsumed by obsidian. Twisting his wrist the way he knew would untether the blonde’s grasp on reality, his heart stuttered when Cullen shattered, the sight all he needed to give into his own release.

Collapsing on his lover, Alistair wrapped his arms around him, rolling them over so Cullen rested on his chest. This way they could breathe, but still hold each other. Sprawled on the bed, they sucked in ragged gulps of air to slow their racing hearts, fingers interlocked on Alistair’s sternum.

“Well,” Cullen panted heavily after a lengthy pause, “if the kiss earlier on the field didn’t tell everyone what we do in our free time, _that_ certainly did.” He chuckled breathlessly, his teasing smile lending a rakish air to his features.

The older boy grimaced, regret flashing in his eyes. “I’m sorry about the kiss. I know you said you don’t mind displays of affection, but I should have tempered it into something less _overt_ -”

“Was it sincere?” the blonde interrupted. Alistair frowned quizzically, unsure where the question came from and what bearing it had on his apology.

“Of course, it was sincere! I’m _crazy_ about you and sometimes it's damned hard to keep my hands off you,” Alistair insisted.

Cullen grinned with smug satisfaction. “Good. I’m reasonably certain the others received the message loud and clear and I can’t find it in me to be mad or embarrassed by it.”

A slow smile bloomed on Alistair’s face as he rolled to lean over his lover. “Hmmm, I shall have to test this theory. Rigorously. Thoroughly. For _research_ purposes, you see.”

The other boy nodded along with every assertion, the humor in his eyes belying the mock seriousness on his face.

“Oh, of course,” Cullen agreed, “one must investigate all theories from _every_ angle to be sure they are… effective.”

“Should I try it now? Unfortunately, we don’t have an audience, but -” Alistair paused, a chuckle spontaneously tumbling past his lips at Cullen’s half-hearted glare.

“What was it you said earlier?” Tapping a finger against his chin, the older boy pursed his lips with a thoughtful expression, his eyes lighting up when he refocused his attention to the blonde. “Oh, yes - ‘shut up.’ ”

Alistair swallowed Cullen’s answering laughter, which was something neither could be mad about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Notes on symbolism:**
> 
> First, let me say, that symbolism of this sort was quite common in the medieval era. Just as Victorian flower language was well-known and utilized for secret or courtly communication, in the medieval period people did the same. So while this may seem excessive to us in the modern age, it would have been a way for someone to tell their paramour their feelings without speaking them aloud. 
> 
> [Celtic sailor knots](https://www.ancient-symbols.com/celtic-knots.html) are one of my favorite knots. Woven by, you guessed it, sailors for their sweethearts, they are 2 knots entwined into one. They "symbolize harmony, friendship, affection and deep love. Denoting the union of two into one, the knot stands for the blending of individual lives into one with a common purpose. Though quite simple to tie, it is one of the strongest knots there can be and is representative of a bond that grows stronger with time and under pressure."
> 
> The ouroboros has many, many meanings throughout history and cultures, but "eternity" or "infinity" are associated with this symbol. For the purposes of this story (and simplification, because there is _too much_ to dig into with this ancient emblem) I went with that and called it good.
> 
> Carnelian is another incredibly symbolic stone. It represents just about everything under the sun... including the sun, actually. This stone has been used since the ancient Egyptians for a variety of reasons and other cultures also highly revere this all-purpose stone. Used by everyone from warriors to healers, it has a rich history that would take a research paper to detail. So, I'll just link the source I used and call it a [day.](https://www.crystalvaults.com/crystal-encyclopedia/carnelian)
> 
> The information garnered for the discussion on Templar's abilities was sourced directly from Dragon Age's wiki page on the [Templar Order.](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Templar_Order)


	10. The Pain of Loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **tw: brief mention of child death**  
>  I am so so sorry. 😭

**Cloudreach 1, 9:26 Dragon**

Tilting his head up with a lazy smile, Alistair basked in the beams of sunlight filtering through the trees. Spring had chased away the residual chill of winter, at last. Small animals and insects, recently emerged from hibernation, skittered and buzzed around the group marching in woods. Flowers filled the air with their scent with every step. The simple joy of experiencing such wild beauty outside the monastery walls was enough to raise his spirits and he bit back a ridiculous giggle.

“You’re such a soft-touch,” murmured a voice beside him.

Alistair swiveled to face the blonde recruit on his left. Shrugging indifferently, he replied airily, “Maybe so, but you try living in the monastery for six years and never going further than the village for holidays. Believe me, you’ll appreciate the little things more when you’ve been denied them.”

Macon rolled his eyes, but there was no bite to it. Glancing at Alistair with a tiny smirk, he pointedly tipped his head while they walked, and the auburn-haired warrior restrained a pleased grin. He watched the boy’s blue eyes widen as they tracked the movement of birds and squirrels diving from tree to tree and followed the play of light through the thicket of leaves.

“Alistair?” the youth whispered after a brief silence. “I think you may be on to something, after all.”

Snorting playfully, Alistair leaned close and murmured, “Now who’s the soft-touch?”

“Me,” his fellow recruit replied, a joyful glint flashing in his eyes.

Before they could continue their teasing banter, Ser Rolf halted their march along the forest path. Sighing heavily, the Knight pulled his sword from his scabbard and adjusted his shield. Turning to the Templar recruits who were little more than boys, he whispered firmly.

“Recruits, prepare yourselves for a fight. It seems the Sisters at the Chantry were misled. We do not fight animals today, but men. They are bandits and we are ill-equipped to cart prisoners to the village. Leave none alive.”

Alistair’s stomach rolled at the prospect of killing anyone. It was one thing to hunt for wild animals the Sisters at the local parish believed responsible for plundering their fields in the middle of the night. But bandits or not, they were _people_ \- not training dummies, and he wasn’t carrying a blunted sword this time.

Yet he was a warrior and warriors trained for moments like this. The world didn’t wait for the ones holding the blade to grow to maturity. If one didn’t wield the blade in defense, one died. And he’d be damned if he let mere bandits kill him.

Swallowing hard, he re-situated the mask of calculated disinterest he’d worn since donning his Templar armor and setting out on this training mission a week prior. Unable to run his fingers along the ring on his thumb with his gauntlets, he took comfort in the reassuring press of metal against his skin. Idly caressing the good luck charm in his tabard pocket with his left hand, he drew his sword with his right and steeled his heart.

As they fanned along the edge of the clearing the bandits occupied, he did a headcount. They outnumbered their foes, but two of them had crossbows. While slow to load, they packed a merciless punch, capable of crushing plate and breaking ribs. Pointing them out to the recruit next to him, Gradon furrowed his brow in grim understanding. They would take them out first to protect their fellows from punctured lungs. Drowning in blood was a horrible way to go.

Mid-way up the line, Ser Rolf raised his fist and sliced it decisively downward. At his signal the ten recruits, and the Knight leading them, poured into the clearing. Swords and shields at the ready, they took the bandits by surprise, falling on them with precision. Muscle memory kicked in, along with a healthy dose of self-preservation, as one crossbowman reached for his weapon. Alistair beat him to it and put himself between the man and his bow.

Alistair didn’t even hesitate when the bandit reached for the dagger on his belt. Striking out with his sword, the crunch of bone and slide of flesh along his blade was the only visceral reminder this was not a practice match. He closed his eyes for a split second with regret as he yanked his sword from the man’s chest.

It wasn’t necessary to verify the man was dead - gone before he even hit the ground. But Alistair glanced anyway, some morbid sense of fascination drawing his gaze without permission. With detached curiosity, he noted the blood flowing over his lips to match the fountain erupting from his sternum.

The fight was over in moments. More like a skirmish than an actual battle. While they were technically recruits in training, they were still soldiers. Educated in military tactics with hours spent honing their stamina and weapons mastery to guarantee they fought as a mobilized unit. Disconcerting that, when he thought about it, taking in the various corpses strewn about the once pristine meadow; the emerald grass now stained scarlet, the earlier sounds of the forest absent after the crash of violence.

His first training mission and just like that - innocence obliterated.

“ _Maker,”_ a voice whispered. At first he thought it was him, but his jaw was immobile, clenched tight to contain the anguished scream clawing at his throat.

A red-haired recruit named Gavin swayed behind him, and Alistair threw out his arm to catch him before he toppled over.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, his jaw unhinging itself as he focused on someone else.

The boy he barely knew before last week stared at him with tortured green eyes, nodding furiously, nostrils flaring as he reined in his emotions. Alistair nodded with him, both keenly aware they were lying, but they clung to the lie and each other for a few moments.

When Gavin found his voice again, his words surprised Alistair. “I’m sorry,” the recruit rasped.

With a quizzical expression, Alistair asked, “For what? You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Yes, I do,” Gavin huffed. “I’m sorry for how we - _I_ \- treated you, Alistair. It was… uncalled for and unworthy. You’re… an honorable man and you didn’t deserve it. My apology is long overdue. Thank you for -” his voice cracked as his breathing became erratic, and Alistair squeezed his shoulder to steady him with an encouraging smile.

“Breathe, Gavin. It’s all right, really. Water under the bridge. None of that shit matters right now. Just breathe - slow, deep breaths.” The redhead sucked in a ragged gulp of air, exhaling unsteadily, following Alistair’s instructions to regain control. Alistair noted the panic in the boy’s eyes receding with relief and he tugged his neck in a friendly gesture.

“That’s it. Feeling better?” The boy shot him a faint smile, still using the breathing exercises to remain calm.

Ser Rolf appeared, brow pinched in concern. “Everything okay here?” They nodded, and he sighed wearily. “Come on, lads, we’re returning to the Chantry. You did well, but I think you all require the night off.”

Collecting their weapons, the boys rejoined the rest of their unit heading to the village. The return march was somber; the recruits' earlier excitement for their mission evaporated, leaving them wilted and weary as they trudged to the parish.

Upon arriving in the village an hour later, their trainer advised them to clean their arms and armor before taking the evening for themselves. Dismissed, the boys piled into the room at the back of the Chantry for hosting those seeking shelter or, in this case, a bunch of Templar recruits. Lined with cots, it was a marked improvement from the cramped tents they slept in on their way to this town, even if the Sister’s late night chanting echoed through the stone halls.

It surprised Alistair the first night when Ser Rolf rolled out of his cot at the same soft chime that roused the Sisters from their beds for Vigil. Foregoing armor, he joined them in casual clothes, returning an hour later for a couple hours of sleep, only to repeat the process when the chime sounded again at dawn. Alistair lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if it was a requirement for all Templars to join the Sisters, or if it was a personal preference. Worrying his lip between his teeth, he thought of Cullen fondly, knowing his lover would be the type to join the Sisters more often than not, wherever they ended up.

Mentally sighing, Alistair shucked his Templar issue gratefully, changing into leather breeches and a fresh tunic. Snagging the runestone from the pocket of his armor, he slipped it in his travel pack for safekeeping. Grabbing his sword, he headed two doors down to the armory to polish and sharpen his blade.

Settling on a low stool, he grabbed a rag to wipe it clean, trying not to think too hard about the rust-colored flakes caught in the grooves of the hilt as he brushed them loose. Forcing his mind to forget the second of resistance before the blade passed with ease through the man’s chest. Tuning out the startled gasp as lungs filled with blood, the tang of iron in the air as he bled out. Willfully ignoring the knowledge that he ended a man’s life. Whether or not the man deserved to live was irrelevant. He shouldn’t have to be judge, jury, and executioner. Yet today that was who he became, and it made him sick.

“Soft-touch,” he muttered caustically.

He was a warrior, and warriors killed men. He was training to be a Templar, but killing demons and abominations were not the same as humans. It’s why the Order used their abilities to subdue mages for capture. They only killed those who resorted to blood magic or failed their Harrowing and became possessed. While unpleasant to think about, those were times that warranted death to protect others.

But he was a warrior, and warriors killed bandits who preyed on innocents. So why didn’t it feel like a victory?

Mindlessly, he switched the rag for a whetstone and honed the tip of the sword until it was sharp enough to split a single hair. Pouring a dab of polishing oil on the cloth, he worked it along the flat of the blade til it gleamed. Chore finished, he returned to their chamber. Sliding his weapon in its scabbard, he propped it against the wall next to his cot before examining his armor. Nothing but dirt. Deciding to clean the travel dust later, he flipped his shield over and piled his gear in the center, scooting it all under his cot so they weren’t tripping hazards.

“Alistair, hey, we’re going to the tavern for dinner. Want to come?”

Peering over his flimsy bed from his position on the floor, he tried to hide his surprise from Gavin. “Uh, yeah, sure. Let me grab some coin.”

Rifling quickly through his pack, he snatched his coin purse and pulled out enough to buy food and a few rounds of ale before joining the redhead waiting patiently at the door. Meeting up with the others at the end of the hall, Macon clapped him happily on the back and Gradon nodded politely at his arrival. Alistair clasped forearms with everyone in a daze, still unsure if they truly wanted him among their number or if Gavin invited him out of pity.

Crossing the small square from the Chantry to the tavern, the recruits piled inside and clambered upstairs to settle around the large circular table that overlooked the main floor. A tavern wench pointed at each boy in turn from the lower level. They all nodded, and she yelled at the barkeeper to pour ten ales while she slipped in the kitchen to get their food. In a few quick trips, she deposited their drinks and stew before leaving the recruits to their own devices.

Initially subdued after the day they had, the recruits' mood improved with full bellies and a round of drinks. Halfway through their second ale, Alistair relaxed as the boys drew him into their conversation, asking him questions about the mana drain a few weeks past. As they compared notes, Alistair felt a sense of acceptance and friendship he’d never experienced with the others before.

Maybe it was because he finally had something to contribute or because the instigators who used to make his life hell were gone. He still had his detractors, yes, but they weren’t here. A week of being in close quarters and fighting together allowed them to see a side of Alistair usually kept under wraps. Now, it seemed Cullen wasn’t the sole person who wanted to befriend him. It was oddly exhilarating.

He laughed along with the others when the oldest recruit, Spencer, rose from the table and sauntered downstairs on a dare. The boys crowded along the railing to watch as he leaned casually against the bar, murmuring to the barmaid who blushed prettily at the handsome warrior’s attention. Holding their collective breath, they watched the recruit angle his face close to the girl, snaring a lock of her wheaten hair and twirl it on his finger, his lips brushing her temple as he whispered to her. She bit her lip, cheeks aflame, and nodded so faintly the eavesdroppers almost missed it. Taking her hand, he gallantly pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and returned upstairs to thunderous cheers. Settling on the bench, Spencer waved away the ale one boy offered him.

“No, thanks. I have to keep my head. I have _plans_ for the lovely Ailith later.”

Macon slapped him on the back. “What did you say to her? I’ve never seen a maid turn that color before!”

Smirking, the older boy replied, “Flattery will get you everywhere, boys. Compliment a woman and watch them melt. Pick a feature, tell them how beautiful it is, and she’s putty in your hands.”

Gradon’s deep voice rumbled next to him. “But what if she’s not pretty? What do you do then, eh, Spencer?” Alistair snorted in his mug at the question.

Spencer shrugged. “There is usually something you can say. Mention her sparkling eyes or her shy smile. Nothing to it, really.”

“What about you, Alistair?” Gavin asked curiously.

Alistair choked slightly, causing them all to break into loud guffaws. “Me?” he croaked. “I have nothing to contribute.”

Macon waggled his eyebrows teasingly. “Maybe not with women, but I doubt _men_ are much different. Out of all of us here, you probably get laid the most, considering how long you and Cullen have been together.”

“Yeah, two years!” piped up another recruit.

Shaking his head with a blush, Alistair spun his stein on the worn table. “No, we’ve only been _together_ for a year.” Clearing his throat at the boys’ surprised expressions, he continued, “Sorry, but that’s all I’m saying about that.”

Gradon chuckled and saluted him with his mug. “No worries, Alistair. We’re already familiar with how you two spend your time. Neither of you are exactly _quiet_ and we’ve all seen the marks on your chest. Seems you and Cullen like things rough,” he finished with a playful wink.

The warrior groaned and hid his face in his hands. “Maker. I don’t think I can look any of you in the eye ever again,” Alistair muttered. Dissolving into boisterous laughter, the recruits jostled him with elbows and shoulder claps until he reemerged, cheeks still hot, but smiling at their good-natured ribbing.

The redhead on his right leaned closer, murmuring under his breath. “I, uh, ask if compliments work on men because… well...” Gavin trailed off uncertainly and Alistair’s eyes flashed with understanding.

“Yes, they do,” he whispered behind his mug. “But if you’re looking for something besides a quick romp, then make them sincere.” Setting down his drink, Alistair sighed heavily.

“I’ll be honest with you, I can’t take a damn compliment to save my life and neither can Cullen. We give them easily enough, but we can’t _receive_ them. So, I’m probably the last person to ask for advice, but I will say this: we don’t focus purely on physical attributes. Compliment his skill on the field, his intellect, his wit, whatever attracted you to him in the first place. Let him know you see him for who he _is_ , not just his good looks.”

Running his slender fingers through the condensation pooled on the table, he murmured, “If all you want is to bed him, then sure, tell him you think he’s attractive and mention all the external things. Like Spencer said, eyes, hair, whatever.” Alistair swallowed hard and nervously met Gavin’s rapt gaze. “But if you want _more,_ then tell him in what you say. Anyone who wants a relationship isn’t going to be won over by mere flattery, but _sincerity_ will catch him and keep him because it comes from the heart.”

Gavin smiled appreciatively, but Alistair registered the absolute silence and intent stares of the others with a furious blush. Coughing nervously, he spun his mug on the table and mumbled, “I’m sure it's the same for women.”

Spencer recovered first, a slow grin blooming on his face as he leaned across the table and hissed, “Holy shit! You _love_ Cullen, don’t you? You’re _in love_ with him!”

Damn, there was no point in pretending now - they’d all see through his lie, anyway. Shifting anxiously, Alistair gave a clipped nod, following it up with a chug of ale.

“And Cullen? Does he feel the same way?” asked Macon eagerly.

Glancing around the table, he saw the recruits all wore encouraging smiles, their eyes alight with interest, not a mocking smirk or wrinkle of distaste to be found among them. Alistair’s chest warmed with their acceptance and obvious excitement for them.

Swallowing the overwhelming rush of emotion, he replied with a shy smile, “Yes, he does.”

Once more the recruits’ corner erupted into raucous cheers. They saluted him with a toast, rife with bawdy comments about what Alistair and Cullen would get up to when they returned to the abbey. Despite his raging blush, Alistair couldn’t stop grinning. _This_ is what it felt like to have friends. A supportive circle of people who would stand shoulder to shoulder with him in a fight and wash away the bitter taste of the day with a cool ale and ribald conversation.

The table rapidly hushed as the sweet-faced barmaid crested the top stair. The boys shared wicked grins over their mugs as Spencer leapt to his feet and hastily bid them all good night. Crooking his elbow genteelly for her, the girl’s cheeks flushed a lovely pink as she allowed him to escort her down the stairs and out of the tavern.

Sniggering they finished their last round, paying for their meal and drinks at the bar. It was already full dark when they entered the town square, the tiny village peaceful and sleepy, so the tipsy group endeavored to steal quietly to the Chantry. With much shushing and drunken giggles they bumbled into the silent building, trying not to upset the serenity with their irreverence.

Stumbling in their chamber, the recruits prepared for bed. Their giggles turned into barks of laughter when clumsy feet tangled in breeches or loose arms trapped them in their tunics, some of them requiring help to escape. Chortling, the others stripped, heedless of their nudity as they fell into their cots. Alistair usually slept naked as well, but he didn’t dare without Cullen. It felt _sacrilegious_ , as though he was cheating on him to sleep nude in a room of other boys. Keeping his eyes on the flagstones, he slipped on his cloth pants, but left his chest bare as he slid under his thin blanket.

Soft snores and creaking frames as warriors’ bodies adjusted to the cramped beds were the only sounds for a few moments. The shifting candlelight from the sconces outside their chamber the only illumination. Alistair’s eyelids fell rapidly in the near dark, the ale working its magic, aiding his descent into sleep. With one foot in the Fade, he mentally wished his lover a good night, promising to be home soon.

KABOOM!

The startling vehemence of the thunder jolted him upright. A cold sweat broke out across his skin and his stomach twisted in knots as guilt settled in his bones.

“Cullen,” he breathed.

* * *

The clap of thunder almost sent him careening out of the bed, yanking him violently from his peaceful dreams. With a vociferous oath, Cullen tugged the pillow close and burrowed under the sheets. Rocking on the mattress, he grumbled irritably to himself.

Fifteen years old and scared of the damned rain. He wasn’t like this in Honnleath and two years after arriving at the abbey, he still couldn’t say what changed, since storms hadn’t bothered him as a child. Maybe it was the separation from his siblings, his home, his _comfort,_ for the first time in his life combined with the spring rains Ferelden was as famed for as its unforgiving winters.

Honestly, he shouldn’t be surprised. Cullen knew where his fear of loud noises originated, and thunder was an obvious trigger. The whip crack of sound continued unabated outside and the memory of the day that changed all their lives came unbidden.

_Chasing his older siblings on shorter, stockier legs, Cullen giggled as they dashed through the tall grass to the old Elliott barn._

_“Wait for me,” he wailed. Mia’s brown curls bounced as she shot him a bright smile over her shoulder, her hand stretching behind for her little brother._

_“Come on, Cullen, or else Landon will beat us there!”_

_The boy in question, squished in between his siblings in age, laughed boisterously and picked up speed, his blonde waves fluttering in the breeze._

_“You won’t catch me, Mia! I’m faster without the baby!”_

_Cullen pouted as Mia scooped him up and settled him on her back. “I’m not the baby,” he groused in her ear as she ran after him, one hand protectively pressing his chubby fingers against her chest to keep him from sliding. “Bran is the baby and Mama says another is coming. It’s not me!”_

_Mia chuckled warmly. “No, dear brother, you’re not the baby. Don’t you mind, Landon.” She raised her voice and hollered across the field, “He's just jealous he’s not the favorite anymore!” The older boy’s bark of amusement trilled back at them and Cullen giggled._

_The barn loomed close. Whoever reached it first and touched the wood would get a pass on the evening chores. Landon was closing in on the weathered building, unused for decades and fallen into disrepair. It wasn’t safe to explore, yet that was part of the allure for the local children. A landmark to prove your bravery, but no one so far had gathered the courage to go inside._

_“He’s going to beat us, Mia! We have to hurry!” Wiggling his smaller frame across his sister in nervous excitement, Cullen nearly slid out of her grasp._

_“Oh, be still, Cullen! I don’t want to drop you. I can’t go any faster.”_ _Cullen held his breath anxiously as they neared the barn, but Landon was closer. He knew they wouldn’t win tonight. With a triumphant whoop, their brother slapped the wood._

_“Looks like you get to sweep the threshing tonight **and** do the laundry with Mama, sister!”_

_Blowing out a resigned breath as they drew closer, Cullen heard Mia mutter, “Blast.” He sniggered in her ear and she turned her horrified face to his and pleaded. “Do not repeat that to Mama, Cullen. She’ll tan both our hides if she hears you swear.”_

_“I promise,” he vowed seriously._

_Placing him gently on the ground, she smiled tenderly at him. “Thank you. Now, let’s round up our naughty brother and head back home, yes? I’m sure Mama has dinner almost ready.”_

_Tugging on her sleeve, Cullen frowned. “Where is Landon?”_

_Mia jerked her head up, pursing her lips in imitation of their mother when she neared the end of her patience with her houseful of exuberant children._ _“Landon Caide Rutherford! Get out of the barn immediately! You know it’s not safe! Mama will kill us if we get hurt!”_

_Landon chuckled from the dark recesses of the dilapidated structure. “You mean Mama will kill **you** for letting us get hurt because you’re the oldest!”_

_Huffing in frustration at the boy’s cheek, Mia snapped, “Yes! Now come out of there right now!” There was no response and Cullen noticed the subtle change in Mia’s expression, her annoyance giving way to fear. “Landon, I’m not playing. Come out.”_

_“I heard you the first time, sister! I was on the other side of the barn. I’m coming back now!” They could hear his footsteps on the wood as he neared the door, and Mia visibly relaxed._

_“Just be careful, for the Maker’s sake, Landon.”_

_Their brother laughed again, and Cullen smiled even though he knew his brother was misbehaving. Landon’s laugh was one of his favorite sounds and he hoped to be like him when he got older._

_A strange creaking reverberated under the laughter and he frowned. “Mia?” Cullen whispered. “What’s that noise?”_

_Mia stared at him, wide eyed and afraid, before pointing insistently behind them. A clear direction for him to stand back. Normally he would have argued, but something in her face made Cullen’s heart race and he ran halfway up the field to put distance between himself and the terror in her amber eyes._

_“I can see the ladder now!” called Landon._

_“Ladder? Landon, did you climb upstairs?!” she shrieked. Another groan echoed through the field and Mia yelled frantically, “Landon, stop!”_

_The world cracked and Cullen screamed as the warped support beams gave way, snapping like twigs and caving in the center. He barely registered the tortured cries of his sister over the sound of an entire building collapsing and burying their brother under the rubble._

Whimpering in his bed, Cullen gasped and sobbed and prayed it was a nightmare. He begged the Maker in a stream of broken utterances for his brother to still be alive. Helping their father run the store, going to larger settlements in the Arling to trade and bringing new inventory to sell in Honnleath. He prayed to wake from the horrific dream and find Alistair’s arms wrapped around him, whispering comforting words, and running his fingers through his hair until the tears stopped.

But he knew it wasn’t a dream.

Cullen never told Alistair why he was afraid of unexpected noises and he’d never asked, but Maker, he wished he had told him now. He didn’t want to carry the guilt and loss alone anymore, and he wanted Alistair to understand. Cullen knew his lover didn’t judge him, but it would make him feel less pathetic if the warrior knew why he cringed every time someone dropped a book in a quiet room or slammed a door too hard.

Smothering his face in the pillow, he wept bitterly, inhaling the faint scent of Alistair still on the cover. It had only been a week, and he had been holding up well until the storms started rolling in. This was the second one in his lover’s absence and Cullen felt his loss acutely.

Cullen didn’t register Alistair slipping out of their bed the day of the mission, too exhausted from the night spent tangled together, leaving visible marks of passion on each other’s skin. When he awoke, a red rose stared at him from Alistair’s pillow - one of the first blooms on the bush in the courtyard. Hiccuping harshly, he glanced at the wilted rose on the dresser and exhaled, willing his heart to slow as he stared at the token. A tremulous smile broke his face at the thoughtfulness, suffusing him with warmth and affection. Using the breathing exercises Alistair taught him, he bored holes into the flower, hearing his lover’s smooth voice in his mind coaching him through his panic until he relaxed.

The storm still raged, so he distracted himself with singing. First with Alistair’s favorite ‘Andraste’s Mabari’ and then the Chant when the thunder reached its height. After reciting Transfigurations twice, the rain eased into a gentle shower, its fury blessedly spent. With a grateful sigh, Cullen fell into a fitful sleep an hour before dawn.

The incessant clanging of the bell pulled him from the Fade and he dressed woodenly, rubbing sand from his eyes as he stumbled into the dining hall. With Alistair gone, his other friends sat with him at meals to keep him company, since he refused to sit elsewhere. Kai shot a quick look at Rupert, who sighed at the state of the blonde between them.

“Hey, Cullen?” asked Rupert. The boy hummed in reply, blearily eating his porridge. “Uh, want to spar later? It’s been awhile since we faced off in the ring.”

“Sure, okay,” Cullen listlessly responded, oblivious to the worried glances of his friends.

Alistair’s parting words floated through his muddled subconscious. _It might be the longest two weeks of our lives, but I’ll be back. Don’t forget your friends while I’m gone, love. They’ll keep you busy._ Cullen smiled softly at Alistair’s wise words; he wasn’t alone, and his lover would be home soon. Besides, a fight would be a perfect distraction.

Perking up now, he continued, “I have Orlesian lessons this morning. How about this afternoon in the courtyard, unless you’re worried about your footwork in the mud?” Cullen teased. His friends smiled brightly as the blonde came around.

“I’ll be there,” Rupert promised with a hearty clap on the shoulder.

Kai took advantage of Cullen’s good humor to share the latest tale of Hugh’s disastrous flirtations with the kitchen maids. By the time breakfast ended, none could speak through their laughter. Waving in the hall as they split up, Cullen headed to his morning lessons feeling much lighter.

The afternoon emerged sunny and warm, a sharp contrast to the night, for which Cullen thanked the Maker. Stepping into the ring, he grabbed a practice blade and worked out the lingering tension from his body. By the time Rupert joined him and tossed him a shield, a slight sheen of perspiration coated his skin. The other boy noted the cuff on his wrist before it disappeared from view behind the guard, but he didn’t comment on it.

Without a word, they circled and waited for a chance to strike. Rupert was an accomplished fighter, and they knew each other’s style well. After Cullen sent him flying a year ago, he mentored him for a time, but it didn’t take the other boy long to improve enough that one-on-one help was no longer required.

Rupert struck first, stepping close into Cullen’s space and darting around, but Cullen ducked and raised his shield to deflect the hit. Keeping his crouched position, he angled for the boy’s ankles, but Rupert parried with his sword and pushed him back.

“You’ve gotten better about that, I see,” Cullen remarked.

His friend smirked as they faced off. Well matched, they could not gain the upper hand, so they opted instead to wear the other down. Steel sang as they lunged, shoved, parried, and feinted while trying to keep their footing in the muddy ring. Cullen laughed when he finally landed a hit on the boy’s thigh, but Rupert nearly sent him sprawling when he kicked out his foot and snagged the toe of his boot. Correcting his balance with a quick weight shift, admittedly made more difficult by the slick ground, he kept himself upright, but only just.

A perk of fighting with Alistair and his daggers was learning how to maintain his footing against a swift opponent with a penchant for fighting dirty. Then again, enemies in actual battles wouldn’t stand on ceremony and he was thankful his lover taught him that lesson early.

“Is that all you’ve got, Cullen?” his opponent taunted.

He growled and veered left, whirling behind Rupert, landing a solid hit with the flat of his blade against his friend’s upper back. The other warrior rounded on him in retaliation, but Cullen’s shield deflected the blow, his amber eyes flashing with amusement over the hammered rim.

Twirling his sword lazily, Cullen arched an eyebrow. “You were saying?”

“You’re a right smug bastard, you know that?” Rupert teased, lowering his weapons and rubbing his sleeve across his sweaty forehead.

Cullen relaxed alongside him and imitated the gesture. “Draw?”

Rupert chuckled breathlessly, “Yeah, draw.”

Sidling to the bucket of well water by the fence, he filled the attached cup and drank greedily to wet his parched throat. Passing the cup to Rupert, they leaned against the fence encircling the training ring with weary sighs. Closing his eyes, the blonde tilted his face toward the sun, idly wishing he could tan instead of burning his fair skin. Tuning his ears to the wind rustling through the trees along the edge of the courtyard, it brought to mind the kisses on the eve of Alistair’s departure in their hidden copse that led to the pair retiring to bed early that night.

Rupert nudged him with an elbow, tugging his lips into a faint smile. “Yes?” Cullen queried under his breath.

“How are you holding up? I know this is the first time you’ve been apart.”

Cracking his lids, Cullen glanced sidelong at his friend, noting the genuine concern on his face. Shrugging nonchalantly, he replied, “I’m all right. It’s been… odd without him around and I miss him like crazy, but he’ll be home in a week.”

The other boy frowned. “Bullshit, Cullen.” Startled, he blinked rapidly while Rupert checked him over with a calculating gaze. “You look like shit. Have you been sleeping at all?”

Haunting memories chilled his blood, and he recalled the two nights without sleep, sobbing brokenly into his pillow, begging for Alistair to come home, _needing_ him like he needed air to breathe to soothe the ache in his heart. Pulling himself upright stiffly, Cullen quickly racked his sword and slotted the shield on its stand, but Rupert stopped him from leaving the ring with a hand to his broad chest.

“Look, I’m not trying to pry or make you feel bad, I’m just worried about you. The purple under your eyes match the marks on your chest, but I know _those_ were intentional.” Rupert’s attempt at humor fell flat, and the boy grimaced. “Shit, this is coming out all wrong.” His friend’s green eyes were imploring. “I’m here for you, Cullen. Whatever you need, okay?”

Narrowing his eyes, Cullen glanced at the hand pressed against the hard planes of muscle. “What exactly are you offering, Rupert?”

His friend visibly paled and removed his hand from Cullen’s chest with a start. “Maker! Nothing like that! Andraste’s pyre, I don’t have a death wish and I guarantee Alistair _would_ kill me. No, I’m not… stepping on anyone’s toes, Cullen. I’m just letting you know that if you need someone to talk to or play chess with or whatever the fuck else you and Alistair do that _isn’t_ each other, I’m here. As your friend. That’s all.”

Cullen’s expression relaxed, and he nodded politely at the offer. “Thanks, I appreciate that. I may take you up on a game of chess later.”

Rupert smiled, relief apparent on his face. “Great. After vigil, maybe?”

“Sounds good,” he agreed. “I’ll see you this evening in the library.” Rupert nodded and moved aside so Cullen could exit the ring.

Flashes of things he’d rather forget still danced through his mind as he entered the monastery, but his feet knew where to take him. He stepped into the bustling kitchen without even realizing where he was going. Margie took one look at his wan smile and nervous shuffling before leading him to a quiet recess of the chamber where they would not be overheard. Settling on a pair of stools with some wine, she rubbed soothing circles along his back.

“Now, dear, why don’t you tell me all about it? Something is eating you, I can tell. You can trust me. There’s no need to keep it in.”

Fortified with wine and trust in Margie, he spilled his secret. Regret and heartbreak pooling in her lap alongside his tears. He confessed his fears kept him awake and without Alistair they were worse. Admitted he dreaded the next week without him as there were sure to be more storms and he didn’t know what to do. With a soft cry, she stood and pulled him close, letting him cling to her and weep until he was wrung dry.

Her rough hands raked gently through his hair as he hiccuped, wincing from the headache brought on by his forceful sobs. “I’m sorry, Cullen,” she crooned. “Nothing I say can make it hurt less, but dealing with what happened, talking about it with those who love you might help you heal.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I’ve carried the guilt for years. I felt like I was responsible -”

Margie shushed him. “No, Cullen, you were a _child_. Accidents happen and they are no one’s fault - that’s why they’re called ‘accidents.’ You were never responsible for what happened that day and neither was your sister _or_ your brother.”

Calloused fingers tightened in the folds of her woolen dress. “I was old enough to know better. We all were.”

“Yes,” she agreed softly, “but that still does not mean you are at fault. Let me ask you this: would Landon want you to suffer this way? Would he want remorse clouding your memories or would he want you to remember the happier times with fondness?”

Cullen drooped in her grasp and she smiled tenderly, blinking back a second wave of tears for him as he eased the stranglehold on his guilt. Sighing heavily, he murmured, “The latter, of course.”

“Of course. It was a tragedy and will always be so, but he was your brother and he would want you to be happy. He would want you to make peace with what happened and not blame yourself, Cullen.”

Swallowing hard, he jerked his head in an unsteady nod. “I’ll try,” he replied.

Hugging him fiercely, Margie whispered in his hair, “You don’t have to try alone, dear. I am here for you, and so is Alistair. Will you tell him when he gets back?” Cullen choked on a sob and nodded vigorously. “Good. Why don’t you boys come see me? I’ll help you explain things or at the very least, I’ll have some fresh sticky buns for all of us. How does that sound?”

Lifting his face from her ample bosom at last, he gave her a weak smile, wiping away the prickly salt trails drying on his cheeks. “I’d like that,” he replied quietly. “Thank you, Margie... for listening to me and helping me see things more clearly.”

“Oh, Cullen,” she smiled warmly. “I know you have a family who loves you, but you are just as much mine _here” -_ she pressed a hand to her heart- “as Alistair is. Remember that and know I am always here for both of you.”

Rising from his stool, he leaned over to press a gentle kiss to her crown. “I know, _Mother._ ”

She gasped and he knew she meant to argue with him; to insist he already had a mother and he needn’t call her the same, but that wasn’t true. His mother bore another name, and Margie was decidedly more than _just_ Margie to him.

“Cullen -”

“Please, I _want_ to -” He choked slightly and swallowed the lump in his throat. “I want to because you _are_ a mother to Alistair and I and because I love you like one.” Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, he smiled to erase her concern, chuckling as a thought crossed his mind. “Besides, if Alistair is your son, then that sort of makes me your son-in-law, doesn’t it?”

Margie tried to hide her smile at his logic, but she gave in when Cullen snorted, a bubble of laughter growing between them. Gray eyes met amber and it popped, the joyful sound smothering the mournful tone of their conversation as he wrapped his arms around her in a tight embrace.

“I love you, sweet boy.” She sighed wistfully against his broad chest. “I don’t think I can call either of you that for much longer. You’re growing into men: intelligent, loyal, _kind_ men and I couldn’t be more proud of you.” Cupping his face in her weathered hands, Margie smiled softly, “And I know your family would say the same.”

Laying his own calloused palms over hers, he pressed them against his cheeks and closed his eyes, allowing her words to take root where the secret guilt he’d carried since he was four years old was now loose. With time, perhaps her surety of his character would replace it.

“Now, _young man_ , I need to return to keeping the girls on task. Will you be all right, dear?”

“Yes,” Cullen smiled fondly. “I have things to busy myself with until dinner. I’ve already made plans for a game of chess with Rupert this evening and there is always vigil. I’ll be fine, Mother. I feel much better now.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Margie replied. “Now, shoo! Off you go, mighty Templar, out of my kitchen so I can finish making dinner to keep you from wasting away to nothing.”

Brushing his lips along her temple in farewell, he snickered, “Yes, ma’am.” Cullen strode through the room, nodding politely to the maids with a blush as he passed.

Slipping into the side corridor, he stole to their tower. Sprawling along the ancient flagstones, he stared at the timbered ceiling with unfocused eyes, his fingers unconsciously tracing the symbol etched on his cuff. He needed to be somewhere where Alistair lingered, but he didn’t want to mope in their bedroom and their wooded hideaway was a quagmire.

Closing his eyes, memories of the last two years populated the room, suffusing him with warmth despite the cool floor, filling the minuscule cracks in his soul. Echoes of shared laughter, reading aloud or talking, hours of single-minded practice, drawn out kisses, and whispered hopes for the future. It wasn’t the same as having Alistair with him, but it helped dull the ache.

“Alistair, be safe and come home soon. Please, love,” he croaked through his tears. “I _need_ you.”

* * *

**Cloudreach 10, 9:26 Dragon**

Bournshire Monastery.

He never thought he would be so happy to see the abbey as he was today. Two days late - thanks to the terrible weather. Ferelden was officially in the middle of storm season and he’d been a nervous wreck the last nine days, practically chomping at the damn bit to get home to Cullen.

No one stopped him when he broke rank and jogged the remaining distance to the monastery. He dashed through the main courtyard, barreling through the foyer, apologizing to Sisters as he squeezed past them in the narrow halls. He didn’t stop in their room to change, only to verify he wasn’t there before taking off again. He had to find him and make sure he was okay first.

Peeking into the library frantically, one boy glanced up and took pity on him. “Training yard, Alistair,” the dark-haired recruit supplied.

Flashing a smile, he yelled his thanks as he ducked in the hall, following it around to the inner courtyard doors. Shoving them open, he immediately caught sight of Cullen’s curls fluttering in the breeze. Standing at the training fence with Kai shouting instructions to the boys in the sparring ring.

Alistair took a moment to steady himself. He seemed all right - laughing and teasing with his friends. Maker, he’d been so worried. Knowing he wasn’t curled in a ball in some dark corner of the monastery allowed his anxiety to ebb, but it didn’t abate. He needed to read his eyes, note the curve of his mouth, and see the tightness of his shoulders to be sure of his mental state.

The other recruits in the yard were strangely quiet as he made his way through the throng, tipped off by his intense focus on Cullen to stay silent. Kai spotted him when he was only a few steps away and his startled expression alerted Cullen to possible danger. He whirled around and Alistair immediately registered the black smudges under his eyes and the imperceptible quiver of his lips. The blonde’s defensive stance melted at the sight of him, his amber gaze overflowing with relief, which told Alistair he was right to be concerned.

“Cullen, I’ve been so worried.”

“Alistair, thank the Maker, you’re back.”

Apologies and reassurances passed discreetly between them, too muffled for anyone to overhear with their faces burrowed in each other’s neck. Ripping off his gauntlets, Alistair cupped his lover’s head protectively as they reacquainted themselves as best as they could with an audience and armor between them. After an indeterminate amount of time, Cullen stopped trembling; the tears threatening to spill their banks temporarily reined in. Taking his cue from him, Alistair snatched the discarded gauntlets and with hands clasped, they wordlessly entered the monastery. Once in their room, Cullen helped him unbuckle his plate and stack it in the corner.

“You probably want to bathe. I can wait,” Cullen murmured.

Alistair shook his head, his hazel eyes warm as he shucked his under tunic and grabbed the spare towel they kept in the bottom dresser drawer. “I’m not leaving you, Cullen. I’ll just rinse off for now and get a bath later, unless you’re insisting I go because I smell like a mabari,” he joked.

Cullen snorted, shaking his head. “No, you don’t. I just thought you might feel better after marching -”

“The only thing that will make me feel better after days on the march is laying on a proper bed with you and taking a nap. I’ll even let you pick which one we sleep in.”

Shooting his lover a bright smile, Alistair sponged off at the basin, surreptitiously eyeing him as he fidgeted on the edge of Alistair’s bed. Cullen didn't look at him, still fully clothed and rubbing his hands along his breeches nervously. It caused his stomach to tie in knots.

Something was very wrong.

He knew the wave of storms in his absence wouldn’t be good for Cullen. Seven in sixteen days, to be exact, yet this was more than his usual anxiety. There was a story here and he doubted he would like it.

Dried off, he padded to the dresser and pulled on a clean pair of sleep pants. Today wasn’t about physical desires and he made it a point to let Cullen know he wasn’t expecting anything. The blonde bit his lip anxiously when he joined him on the bed, his jaw clenching as he tried to stem the tears welling in his eyes. Alistair slowly reached for his hand to keep from spooking him.

“Love,” Alistair murmured, “what’s wrong? You know you can tell me anything.”

Cullen nodded, unable to hold his gaze when he opened his mouth. Yet, no words came out, and he waved his free hand airily as he floundered.

Trying a new tactic, Alistair attempted to guess the problem. “Did something happen while I was away? Did someone _hurt_ you?” Cullen shook his head vehemently, and Alistair breathed a sigh of relief. Swallowing hard to dislodge his heart from his throat, he asked the next worrisome question to cross his mind. 

“There… isn’t someone _else_ , is there?”

Cullen’s head jerked at that, and he turned his piercing eyes to him in horror. “No, never,” he croaked, nearly breaking Alistair’s hand with the force of his grip.

Alistair’s chiseled features creased in concern. Cupping the blonde’s cheek with his other hand, he whispered, “Please, tell me what’s going on, Cullen. You’re scaring me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to frighten you,” he choked. “It’s just… what I have to say is _big_ and I-I should have told you ages ago, but I’ve never been able to talk about it.”

“Is it related to the storms?” Cullen nodded, tears rolling unchecked across his cheeks. Alistair smiled kindly, thumbing aside his tears before sliding to the floor. “Okay, then. First, though, let’s get you comfortable.”

Cullen opened his mouth in confusion, but snapped it shut as Alistair eased off his boots, stuffing his socks inside for safekeeping. Glancing up at him, Alistair asked softly, “Tunic on or off before we lie down?”

“Off,” Cullen whispered. Alistair said nothing as he stood and helped him out of his shirt, patiently waiting for him to crawl into the bed before joining him. Cullen immediately wrapped around his broad frame, relishing the feel of skin to skin contact, burrowing into the earthy, sunlit scent of the warrior who was the other half of his soul.

Tucked under his chin, Alistair’s fingers combed through his hair and traced mindless, soothing patterns on his back and shoulders, feeling the tension leach out of his lover with every pass. After a few minutes of weighty silence, Cullen found his courage and blurted out the story in a rush. He briefly explained that being away from home without his support group for the first time in his life was enough to cause violent storms to trigger his deep rooted fear. By the end of his tale, both were sobbing - heartbroken and guilty.

“Maker, love, I’m so sorry. I wish I could fix it. I wish I had been here for you. I’m just so damned sorry,” Alistair cried, his voice thick with emotion.

“So am I,” Cullen gasped against his chest. “I’m sorry I never told you. But I couldn’t… I didn’t…” He dissolved into tears again and Alistair pulled him as close as possible, wishing he could stow him inside his chest to isolate him from his pain.

Alistair whispered how much he loved him and promised to stand by him in whatever way he needed to heal. Closing his eyes, he hummed a half-remembered melody from his past. A lullaby the maids in the castle used to sing to him when he was nursery aged. The words lost to time, the gentle tune remained; now rumbled in a warm baritone for another who needed comfort from the dark grip of loss.

Cullen melted in his embrace, succumbing to sleep almost instantly, emotionally and physically drained from the past two weeks. Alistair continued to hum, his tears running freely into flaxen curls as his lover rested peacefully in his arms.

His own wounds could wait. Nothing mattered more than Cullen. Nothing _ever_ would, he swore, as sleep claimed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I posted the very first chapter and listed at the end a few things the boys liked and a couple of their fears, I fully intended for those fears to be used later. To make the boys seem relatable off the bat. To give them immediate flaws, where most times we wear rose-colored glasses with our favorite characters. 
> 
> What I was NOT expecting is where my brain would take the backstory for Cullen's fear. However, I knew it had to be something traumatic that would stick with someone into adolescence. Especially someone training to be a warrior - groomed to be fearless. This is where we ended up and Maker's breath - it fucking hurts. But it also _fits._
> 
> I am so sorry. I never meant for this to go this route, but no matter how I tried to change the narrative, nothing worked as well as this.


	11. Unwanted Visitors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **tw: epidemic, minor character death**  
>  Hunker down with a blanket and something soothing to drink. Welcome to apprx 8,5k of angst & hurt/comfort. There are a few lighter moments in here, but this is still rough on the boys. I hope you still enjoy this chapter. Please let me know in the comments. 💛 Also, hover over the "Orlesian" text and the translation will be visible!

* * *

**Solace 3, 9:26 Dragon**

It started as a perfectly normal day. Morning vigil, training, history lessons; but none were fooled.

Chairs creaked as half-grown men shifted nervously, the summer heat oppressive and cloying. Sweat beaded along broad shoulders, rolling in slow rivulets across the hills and valleys of their skin - all of them praying it was merely a reaction to the temperature trapped in the sealed building with them.

A dull clatter of metal from the rear of the abbey and the shrill screams that followed snapped the tension coiled inside the monastery. Fear took its place as the equalizer of all men stalked the halls.

Pestilence had come, at last, bringing its friend - Death.

_Sweating sickness._

It sounded innocuous, but it was more than a fever. It struck hard and it was merciless; capable of taking healthy men and women to their pyres in mere hours.

Making landfall in the village a few days ago, the Revered Mother demanded an immediate quarantine hoping to prevent its spread through the ranks. The gates of the grounds were closed, windows barred, training sessions moved inside.

The world outside tempted them all with her beauty; begging them to open the windows _just a_ _crack_ for a whiff of fresh air. A balm against their overheated flesh. But ash blew on the breeze. A grim reminder that beautiful things could be deadly, too.

Yet, nothing could stop the outbreak from clawing its way inside their sanctuary.

Alistair clutched Cullen’s hand under the study table as footsteps dashed through the halls toward the kitchen. The screams died as help arrived, replaced by anguished sobs as the footfalls moved into the servants’ quarters.

“Let’s go,” hissed Cullen. Alistair nodded mutely as they rose in tandem. Sharing a quick look, they slipped into the side passages and headed for their tower. Halfway there, the older warrior pulled up short and shook his head.

“Fuck, we can’t go up there, Cullen. The archer loops.”

The blonde sagged in realization and propped himself against a wall with a weary sigh. “Shit, I forgot. I just… wanted to get as far away as possible.”

Alistair enveloped him in a desperate hug. “I know,” he whispered against his shoulder. “Nothing will happen to you. Not with me here.”

Cullen chuckled mirthlessly and Alistair’s stomach rolled uneasily. “You can’t protect either of us from something we can’t see coming. No matter how much you may wish to.”

The Revered Mother’s words from last summer echoed in Alistair’s mind. _We are all at time’s mercy._ He shivered in remembrance, his heart clenching painfully as Cullen captured his lips in a fierce kiss. A little too hard and tinged with fear. Alistair frantically returned it, trying to express how much he loved him should the worst happen. He needed him to _know_ , right now, the depth of his devotion knew no bounds.

The first clang of a bell pealed through the ancient stone halls. Separating breathlessly, the young men stared wide eyed as it rang in the middle of the day. Lips moving in unison, they silently counted as it tolled through the abbey.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four. The hair on Alistair’s neck stood on end.

Five.

Six. Cullen’s pupils shrank in fright.

Seven.

 _The death knell_.

One bell for each Canticle in the Chant. The last bell coinciding with the seventh and final Canticle. The end of life.

Death laid claim to its first victim; the maid who collapsed in the kitchen was gone. In the eerie silence that descended in the wake of the clamor, the keening of the other maids resonated through the monastery.

“Alistair,” Cullen whispered harshly, “forget everything I said earlier and promise me not to die.”

Cupping the younger boy’s face in his rough hands, he choked, “I won’t leave you. Don’t you leave _me._ ”

The blonde could only mouth “Never,” as his voice gave out when their lips met for an urgent kiss. Tears mingled on their skin until their kisses ended entirely and they sank to the floor together in a heap.

* * *

Two days passed and a few others fell ill, but those affected seemed to be past the worst of the fever. It was a miracle of Andraste that no one else had succumbed. Of course, none took their good fortune for granted. The pyres still burned day and night in the village.

They set lessons and training aside for the time being. The Knights and the Sisters too preoccupied nursing the sick to worry about anything else. Their other usual pursuits, such as spending time in the tower or the kitchen were out of the question. Margie sent them a note through Ser Miles, requesting they not visit her in the servant’s quarters or the kitchen for the time being. Though quarantined within the abbey since the maid passed, she refused to risk infecting them, but she was quick to reassure them she wasn’t displaying any symptoms.

The pair spent most of their time either in their chamber or the library - playing chess with one another or their friends and taking books to their room to read aloud. The days were too quiet and the comforting sound of each other’s voices offset their jangled nerves. They also wrote letters to their family; a growing stack of correspondence that couldn’t be sent until the outbreak ended.

The nights were theirs. Sometimes passionate and heady, others tender and sweet, yet always edged with apprehension. Every day they awoke with the sun, healthy and hale, they breathed a sigh of relief and crossed their fingers for their luck to last.

Listening to the slide of wooden pawns along the chessboard in the library, Alistair smiled to himself as Cullen leaned forward in his seat. A tell he long ago learned to read.

“Checkmate,” the blonde smirked to his opponent.

“Damn it, Cullen,” groused Kai, flopping against the back of his chair in defeat.

Alistair chuckled from his sprawled position on the floor, tossing a wadded ball of parchment repeatedly in the air. Cullen leaned over, staring at his lover upside down with a lopsided grin.

“What?” he queried. Alistair popped him in the forehead with the paper ball, chuckling again at the nose crinkle it garnered.

“I keep trying to tell everyone you’re impossible to beat, but they don’t believe me. Soooo, they stupidly continue to play and lose. I just find it amusing, that’s all,” he teased.

Kai tapped Alistair’s thigh with the toe of his boot. “Hey wise ass, we’re bored to tears. Even if he wins every game, it’s something to do.”

Alistair stuck his tongue at the dark-haired boy, and they all shared a laugh. Sitting up, he stole a quick peck from Cullen and fluffed his short hair to remove the dirt. Glancing around the library curiously, he asked, “Where is everybody, anyway? I thought there were more of us earlier.”

The other boys shrugged as they stood. Cullen’s stomach grumbled, and the trio laughed again, agreeing to take their rumbling bellies to the dining hall. Margie kept a table of soups and bread at the rear of the hall. It removed the need for multiple meals while the kitchen staff were confined to their chambers. She kept the fare light for those with sensitive appetites: usually vegetable soups or meat broth with potatoes. Every hour or so, Margie would collect the dirty dishes and top off the soup with a fresh batch whenever necessary.

Settling at a table with their vegetable soup and hunks of oat bread the recruits enjoyed their lunch in comfortable silence. They treated themselves to seconds, reasoning it was a shame to allow Margie’s cooking to go to waste. Stacking their bowls neatly on the corner of the table when they finished their meal, they exited the hall and headed for the dormitory when Sister Antoinette intercepted them.

“Non, vous ne pouvez pas y aller!” she exclaimed, slipping into her native Orlesian in her haste to stop them.

Kai angled his head with a deep frown. “Why not, Sister Antoinette?”

Wringing her hands fretfully, she blurted. “Many others have fallen ill. The Revered Mother is separating the healthy from the sick. This is to be, ah, salle de maladie.”

“Sick ward?” gasped Cullen. “How many others, Sister?”

“Ten,” she whispered.

“Fifteen total. That’s… that’s half the recruits,” mumbled Alistair.

“Oui,” Sister Antoinette agreed despondently. “The Revered Mother has requested the healthy recruits move to the other side of the abbey. The Knights are setting up pallets and cots for you now. Please, follow me.”

Cullen twined his fingers with Alistair’s as they walked, using his presence to ground him as they followed the Sister through the halls to the forbidden side of the monastery. A smallish room, probably used for storage, had been cleared to make space for the few cots on hand, while the Knights layered blankets on the floor in a makeshift pallet.

Ser Miles glanced up from his position in the corner as he popped open the last cot, nodding in thanks to the Sister who quickly departed. “I apologize for the hasty move, but it seems prudent,” he stated.

“Ser,” the three recruits mumbled.

The Knight sighed heavily. “You still have free rein of the abbey, except the dormitory.”

Cullen’s head popped up, and he eagerly asked, “The chapel is open?”

The man smiled indulgently. “Yes, it is. You’re free to light a candle and pray.” The blonde recruit fidgeted slightly, and the Knight took pity on him. “You could even go now, if you wished,” he replied nonchalantly, returning to his task to give the boys an escape without an obvious dismissal.

Tugging on Alistair’s hand, Cullen pulled him through the doorway toward the chapel. For once, the young man did not argue, willingly falling into step alongside his lover. Alistair didn’t check to see if Kai stayed behind; too distracted by the thoughts bouncing wildly in his head at the unexpected news.

They were the only ones in the chapel as they settled on their knees in front of a single candle. The younger boy nodded to Alistair who inclined his head in understanding. The same Canticle fell from their lips, their voices rising and falling in synchronized cadence. Cullen used prayer as any devout Andrastian to ease his anxiety and deposit his cares at the Maker’s feet. Alistair prayed for the meditative effect, the bliss of numbness, to soothe his restlessness in the face of adversity.

Their reasons might be different, but the result was the same and Alistair couldn’t find it in him to dislike it right now. Not with Cullen kneeling beside him, their hands still clasped, drawing strength from each other as much as the Maker.

_“Maker, my enemies are abundant._

_Many are those who rise up against me._

_But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_

_Should they set themselves against me._

_“In the long hours of the night_

_When hope has abandoned me,_

_I will see the stars and know_

_Your Light remains.”_

As they continued their recitation of Trials, Alistair was vaguely aware of others joining in the Chant. Their voices a quiet chorus behind them as they allowed the pair to lead. The tension wound in his body slowly leached out as the prayers fell, but where his shoulders relaxed in serenity, he felt Cullen unconsciously straighten as though trying to reach Heaven with his words.

_“Draw your last breath, my friends._

_Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky._

_Rest at the Maker's right hand,_

_And be Forgiven.”_

Cullen raised his voice above the others as he continued his fervent devotional. Light filtered behind his eyelids and warmth pooled in his chest, coursing through his body with every beat of his heart. He felt Alistair calm beside him, a sure sign he was dipping into meditation, and for a split second his stomach clenched with disappointment. He wished his lover could feel the Maker’s touch as he did, but that wasn’t who he was or would ever be. At least Alistair received a semblance of peace during prayer, which he was especially grateful for today.

Trials was one of his favorite Canticles. A petition for the devotees to not forsake the Maker in times of trouble, but to remember His promises and be at ease should He call them home. With pious hope flooding his soul, Cullen led the Chant faithfully. His voice never wavering, ringing clear through the chapel as the monastery prayed as one.

_“Maker, though I am but one, I have called in Your Name,_

_And those who come to serve will know Your Glory._

_I remembered for them._

_They will see what can be gained,_

_And though we are few against the wind, we are Yours.”_

Though it was the beginning of the fifth stanza, Cullen ended the Chant there since it perfectly encapsulated everything he spent two hours on his knees pleading for. Certainty. Assurance. _Perseverance._

The voices behind him gradually ceased, and he opened his eyes in the silence. Glancing to his left, Alistair’s peaceful hazel gaze met his, a gentle smile on his full lips. Cullen blushed at the open tenderness on his face and he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. Alistair snorted softly as he helped him rise and led him through the semi-circle of recruits, Sisters, and Knights who joined them in prayer.

Once in the hall, Cullen whispered, “I’ve never _led_ the Chant before. That’s the Sisters’ or the Mother’s job.”

Alistair brushed aside an unruly curl fondly. “Well, you did tonight, and it was awe-inspiring to hear your voice rising above everyone. Your prayers are so heartfelt and _impassioned_. I wish I had a thimble of your faith, Cullen. It puts all of us to shame.”

His skin flushed furiously under Alistair's pronouncement. “I’m not trying -”

Stepping in front of him, Alistair halted his feet and his words. “I know,” he murmured. “It’s just who you are, Cullen, and it is part of why I love you. You have faith for an army and sometimes, I _need_ that. Right now, though, we _all_ need it. That’s why they let you lead. We need your fervent petitions to lift us up.”

Alistair tilted his chin when the other warrior tried to duck his head in embarrassment. “I’m not the only one who looks to you in times of trouble as a… guiding light pointing me in the direction I should go. I may not _feel_ it the way you do, but that doesn’t mean that listening to you pray doesn’t do wonders for me. Hearing the steadfastness in your voice - it’s inspirational, which is exactly what we need, love.”

Cullen drew him close for a hug and Alistair whispered in his ear. “You are exactly what _I_ need - every minute of every day. I love you, Cullen, so much it _scares_ me. I can’t lose... I can’t -” The warrior broke off with a strangled gasp and Cullen tightened his hold, swallowing hard to clear the lump in his throat.

“I love you, Alistair, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you either, but I have faith. I will keep faith for both of us if need be.”

Alistair nodded against his neck. “Okay,” he rasped. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Let’s go to bed,” Cullen murmured. “I’m exhausted after all that time kneeling.” Alistair chuffed a quiet laugh as they headed to the storage room.

The other recruits were already there. It seemed everyone planned to bed down early in hopes the next morning would dawn with better news. With the cots already claimed, it forced the rest of the young men to find ways to sleep on the floor without being too cozy with their fellow warriors. Since the pair didn’t have that problem, they chose a far away section of the blanketed floor to leave as much space for those who wanted it. Alistair settled behind Cullen, pulling his back against his torso, their fingers entwining across the blonde’s abdomen.

“Look,” Cullen breathed, jerking his chin across the pallet to another couple. He twisted his head and caught Alistair’s smug grin in the flickering candlelight. “Looks like your advice wasn’t wasted,” he murmured.

“It seems that way, doesn’t it?” he replied, watching Gavin and a slightly older recruit named Easton curl up in similar fashion on the floor.

The redhead caught Alistair’s eye over the brunette and mouthed "thank you" with a shy smile. Alistair tipped his head in reply, his arm unconsciously tightening around Cullen’s middle in an excited hug. The knowledge his words helped others find happiness released a flood of giddy warmth through his body.

“I love you,” he breathed in Cullen’s ear.

Cullen chuckled softly at his enamored reaction, squeezing the fingers threaded with his. “I love you, Alistair. Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.” The warrior nuzzled his curls affectionately before relaxing, smiling fondly as the blonde slipped rapidly into the Fade’s embrace.

It wasn’t long until the entire room fell silent as the recruits descended into sleep. It didn’t stay quiet. Laying on the flagstones wasn’t comfortable and those in the small cots fared no better. They all tossed and turned, catching snippets of rest as the hours slipped through their fingers like sand in an hourglass.

When the bell rang in the morning for breakfast it was met with groans and curses in a myriad of voices. Until it sluggishly dawned on them it was too early for the bell and the Sisters hadn’t rung it for mealtimes since the outbreak.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six. All the recruits held their breath.

Seven.

They sat in horrified silence; too stunned to speak. Some clutched the edges of cots, others raked shaky hands through hair, while some openly clung to one another for support.

Turning his face to Cullen in terror, Alistair discovered he was still lying down. His heart stopped as his brain catalogued his worst nightmare. Cullen drenched in sweat, skin flushed scarlet and hot to the touch, parched lips fluttering in delirium. In the middle of the night, sickness claimed his lover and icy tendrils of terror snaked up Alistair’s spine.

“CULLEN! Maker, no, no, no!”

Alistair’s heartrending shout spurred the recruits into action. Fleeing the chamber, they sought a Knight or a Sister for help. Slipping an arm under his neck, Alistair hissed at the immense heat radiating off his sturdy frame, almost scalding his skin. He settled the quivering youth in his lap, sobbing in his hair, pleading for him to stay with him.

“You promised me, Cullen. You can’t go. Maker, don’t leave me. I can’t do this alone. I love you! Please, _please,_ stay with me!” His words dissolved into gibberish as he rocked the boy in his arms, cursing the Maker for always robbing him of what he loved.

Ser Tabor entered the room, his eyes full of pity as he reached for the boy in his arms. Alistair shook his head, holding him against his chest, tears pouring across his stubbled face.

“Please, Ser, don’t take him. Please, please! If he goes to the sick ward, he’ll die. I-I -”

“Hush, lad,” the Knight reassured him as he squatted at eye level. “We’ll take care of him. He needs to rest in order to recover. Let me take him with me so we can help him. Once he’s better, you can see him again.”

Shaking his head vigorously, he choked, “You don’t know that. You can’t be sure I’ll ever see him again. Please... let me go with him. I won’t be in the way, I swear!” His voice cracked pathetically, but he didn’t care. “Please, Ser Tabor, please, I’m begging you! He… he’s all I have.”

The Knight’s eyes welled with sympathetic tears at his confession and he swallowed hard before he replied. “I swear to you, Alistair, I will do everything I can to make sure he recovers. But he must come with me now. His chances improve the sooner we tend to him.” Laying a hand on his shoulder, he squeezed. “You must trust me, lad, and do what is best for Cullen.”

A tortured sob erupted from Alistair’s chest as he nodded. Pressing a desperate kiss to his sweaty brow, he relaxed his hold and let the Knight scoop him up as though he weighed nothing, carrying him swiftly out the door.

Glancing at the blanket on the floor he noted the saturated fabric and his stomach knotted at his negligence. How could he have not noticed? Tracing the outline with his calloused fingers, he doubled over on the floor and wept, uncaring who heard or witnessed his breakdown. The boy he loved teetered on the brink of death.

Nothing else mattered.

His tears slowed as he wore himself out and his ears caught faint bits of conversation from the Sisters in a nearby room.

“...lovely boy, Brantley. Such a tragedy,” sighed Sister Agnes.

“It is,” tsked Sister Bridget. “Thirteen - so young.”

“No,” interjected the first. “His birthday was two months away. He was twelve.”

Sister Bridget inhaled sharply. “Merciful Andraste! I do not envy the Revered Mother writing the letter of condolence.”

“Nor I, Sister. Nor I.” Their voices faded along with their steps, likely heading to the dormitory to tend the sick.

Guilt left a bitter taste in his mouth. Cullen was ill, but was thankfully still alive - one of their own was not. _A child_ \- not even an adolescent. A child who would never grow into a man. Never learn to shave, never awkwardly flirt with a village maid, never know the camaraderie of his fellow recruits.

Agitated and broody, he snatched the drenched blanket, shuffling listlessly through the halls. His hazel eyes unfocused and unseeing, his feet carried him automatically through the abbey. Rounding the corner to the kitchen, he spotted Ser Rolf guarding the servant’s quarters. The Knight startled at his plodding gait and haggard appearance.

“Alistair -”

“Burn it,” he interrupted, shoving the blanket at him. “It needs to be burned on the pyre. Washing it won’t be enough to remove…to…” Snarling in righteous fury, he pressed it forcefully against the man’s chest. “Take it! Take it and fucking burn it!”

The Knight blinked in shock, but before he could respond, Margie intervened. Her hand rested lightly on Alistair’s torso, pushing him back to give the Templar room to breathe. Reaching up, she cupped his face in her rough hands, angling his head down to look at her.

“Son, tell me what’s happened. Talk to me. Don’t retreat.”

Gazing into her gray eyes, he choked, “Cullen…”

Ser Rolf swore behind the woman and dashed around them to the dorms, leaving Alistair in her care. Margie inhaled sharply, tears filling her gaze.

“Is... is he…”

“Alive,” Alistair gasped. “I woke up with the bell and he... covered in sweat... soaked through the blanket. How did I not know, Mother? How did I not know?! It should be me…not him! It should be me…” He broke off with a sob and fell to his knees, burying his face in her softness as he cried.

“Dearest, no! Don’t say that! Then Cullen would be here saying the same and you wouldn’t want that, would you?” Alistair shook his head vehemently as her fingers carded through his hair.

“The Maker will watch over him, you’ll see,” her voice wavered, but neither of them commented on it as they took comfort in each other. “He’ll be all right, dear. We must have faith.”

He squeezed her hard, croaking through his tears, “I don’t have faith, Mother. You know I don’t believe. Cullen is the one…” he gasped harshly. “He has faith for both of us. Without him, I’m lost.”

“Well,” she murmured thickly, “maybe you could try, for his sake. You never know, prayer might help. It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?” Recalling last night’s vigil and the peace he felt afterwards, he couldn’t discount the wisdom of her words.

Of course, Cullen had been there - leading the entire monastery into a worship more heightened than any he’d ever experienced. His melodious voice reverberated through the echoic chamber, calling others to prayer like moths to a flame. Rising above them, _directing them_ , with passionate devotion he filled their hearts with hope. It was enough to _almost_ make him believe as the boy poured out his heart and soul; the soul he adored for its purity and benevolence.

“You’re right, Mother. I think I will pray. It might be a good idea,” Alistair murmured.

“Of course, dear,” Margie sniffled. “Come on, then. Let’s get you a drink for your dry throat and I can whip up something for you to eat. Eggs or bread soppes, maybe?”

Alistair rose unsteadily with a wan smile. “Eggs sound excellent right now.”

Linking their arms together, Margie briskly patted his hand. “Then eggs you shall have! Tea or milk?”

The warrior smirked at her. “Got any brandy, Mother?”

Margie’s mouth fell open, and she smacked him across the chest as they entered the warm kitchen. “Maker’s mercy! What have you been getting up to with the other boys? Hard liquor - _my son!_ I should flog those knights for letting you boys drink outside the monastery!”

Alistair bit his lip to restrain his grin as she bustled about in an irate tizzy, allowing her motherly chiding to ease the ache in his chest. She cracked eggs and chopped vegetables with barely restrained fury, almost forgetting to season the mixture in her flustered state. Heating a pan over the fire, she poured the contents of the bowl in the center, muttering to herself as she flipped over the omelette. Snatching the nearby kettle, she poured two cups of black tea, doctoring it the way they liked. Presenting him with a plate, she pointedly set his tea alongside it, but her anger evaporated when she finally looked at him.

“Oh, Maker, I fell for it. You were teasing me!”

He burst into laughter and pulled her in for a hug, unruffled by the gentle cuff upside his head. “I swear, Mother, I’ve never had anything stronger than ale.”

“Humph,” she huffed. “You’re a man now, Alistair. I can’t tell you what to do. I just wish you could stay a boy forever.”

Alistair shuddered when he recalled his first skirmish. The expression on the bandit’s face as he ran him through and the crimson staining his sword easily wiped clean. The stain on his conscience, however, was permanent.

“Me, too,” he whispered. Clearing his throat, he continued with a smile. “But I promise to stay away from the hard stuff.”

Laughing lightly, she pulled out of the embrace and tapped his plate. “Eat - before it gets cold.”

Settling on the stool next to him, they sat in companionable silence while he ate, linking their fingers in reassurance as they sipped their steaming tea. He stayed and helped her clean up, but she kindly shooed him from the kitchen once the dishes were done so she could work on breakfast for the rest of the abbey.

Wandering aimlessly into the library, he collapsed on a chair by the window, staring out at the courtyard bathed in shades of orange as the sun greeted the world. Alistair almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Trapped inside, unable to breathe the air for the ‘miasma’ borne on the wind, his fellows perished within the walls where disease now resided. Yet, the sun still rose and set every day as though nothing was amiss.

How many mornings had he taken for granted with Cullen? How many hundred of times had he watched the sun creep into their room; framing him in gold, wreathing his hair like a halo, stealing his breath when he opened his amber eyes and gave him a sleepy smile? Would there be any more or were those days gone?

Panic bubbled in his sternum, electrifying his nerves and leaving him jittery. Snagging fistfuls of his hair, he swallowed the anguished scream clawing his throat as the sun rose higher on the horizon. He couldn’t watch - he couldn’t stand to see the world continue as though Death wasn’t breathing down Cullen’s neck. Stumbling from the library, he slipped into an empty training room and sank to his knees.

Unable to hold back anymore, he released his pain, his guilt, his _fear,_ with a wail. A tortured keen of heartbreak that degenerated into quaking sobs.

Time had no meaning in the depths of his despair. Minutes, possibly hours, passed as he sat on the floor and wept. Alistair jerked when a light touch landed on his shoulder, startling him from his grief. He glanced up to find Gavin, Easton, Kai, and Rupert kneeling with him.

Gavin patted him kindly, his voice strangely tight when he spoke, “You’re not alone, Alistair.”

The warrior choked, gripping his friend by the elbow, tugging his arm in thanks. Nodding at the others, they converged on him with back slaps and shoulder claps and one-armed hugs; offering their support as best they knew how, but it was enough. It anchored him so he could breach the surface and breathe again. His lungs still burned and his heart still bled, but he wasn’t alone. There were others who also feared for Cullen, but together they could stay afloat.

He barely recognized his raspy voice when he spoke. “Thank you. All of you. I-I… thank you,” he finished lamely.

None of them responded. With jaws clenched they curbed their own tears, trying to put on brave faces befitting their Order. Alistair heard Cullen’s younger voice telling him that real men weren’t afraid to show emotion and he knew his lover would never let their reticence stand.

Closing his eyes, Alistair cleared his raw throat and croaked, “You know, Cullen once told me something I’ve never forgotten. It was the night I told him who my father was - the first time I’d ever told _anyone -_ and it was… painful. I-I was embarrassed, you see; I didn’t expect the admission to cause the reaction it did.” He opened his eyes and took a fortifying breath, noting his audience’s rapt attention.

“When I apologized for crying, calling such a response ‘weak’ and ‘unfit for a warrior,’ this is what he said. ‘It’s not weak. Everyone cries, even if they don’t admit it… true men aren’t afraid to show emotion because it makes us human. The day we no longer acknowledge our feelings is the day we lose our humanity.’” Chuckling softly at the memory of younger Cullen’s earnestness, he stared at his hands fiddling with the hem of his tunic.

“It astounded me,” Alistair whispered. “This skinny kid, younger than I, was so _wise_ and gracious. Instead of judging or mocking me, he encouraged me to _feel_ , to experience all the things that make us human, even the emotions the world tells you are weak or unworthy.”

He paused and swallowed hard. “I’ve never told him how much that _affected_ me, how much that _changed_ me. How it made me a better man. I’ve never told him that was the night that changed _everything_. And now-” Alistair choked on a sob “-now I fear I never will.”

Glancing at the others, it surprised him to see their unrestrained tears, but his heart leapt as Cullen’s words took root in them. Warmth coursed through him to see his lover’s wisdom spread beyond him. A gift which allowed him to hold on to who he was under his insecurities and doubts of being a Templar. Allowing him to accept that what he once considered a weakness was actually a strength. He hoped the others would share it themselves one day and give other men permission to experience their full range of emotions.

Kai leaned close and cupped Alistair’s nape, his voice thick when he asserted. “You’ll tell him, Alistair. Then we’ll all tell him how much it mattered to us, as well.”

Alistair reached out to clutch Kai’s shoulder, squeezing him in thanks for the positivity as the others nodded in agreement. Clearing his throat again, his lips quirked in a slight smile.

“Now, who’s got ideas to help me sneak into the dorms?”

All four of the boys grinned and Alistair’s chest swelled at the brotherhood growing between them as they devised a plan to get him back where he belonged.

* * *

The bells rang twice more, disturbing the tenuous tranquility with every raucous clang. Two more recruits - one he didn’t know and one he did. He slammed his fist against a bookshelf in the library after Ser Erlic stiffly passed along their names before leaving the boys to their grief.

“Maker, Spencer. I’m so fucking sorry,” Alistair mumbled. He recalled the man flirting with the barmaid, returning to their table with a smug grin, yet refusing to kiss and tell in the morning. _Despite what you think, I’m not a cad._ _A gentleman doesn’t give away a lady’s secrets._

Alistair spent most of the afternoon with others who knew Spencer better than he did. It was especially hard on the man’s best friend, Gradon. The recruits dragged the burly warrior to a training room and gave him an opportunity to unleash his bitter rage on each of them in the ring to prevent him from demolishing the library.

Exhausted and heart-sore, Alistair stumbled to the bathing room which was blessedly empty. Slipping into the farthest pool, he settled in a distant corner and tucked his knees under his chin.

He didn’t have any tears left. He barely had any _emotions._ This was the numbest he’d ever been, and it was a revelation to discover he loathed it.

Cullen made him feel alive and gave him a reason to wake up every day. To be a better man, striving to be an honorable Templar, to make him proud. Quick to find opportunities to make him grin or laugh so he could watch his eyes shine with glee. Without him - he was empty. Losing the others on top of everything felt like someone kicking him when he was already down.

His lover believed in the Maker, _trusted_ in Him and His goodness, but he couldn’t see it. He couldn’t see how _this_ was good. How this _disaster_ had any meaning beyond pain. If that’s all He wanted - for them to suffer - Alistair didn’t want to have a damn thing to do with Him.

And yet… he was desperate and there was no other hope with which to cling.

Washing his hair and body quickly, Alistair toweled off and redressed in the same clothes, since his others were sequestered in his room.

Dashing up the hall, he skidded along the stone into the chapel and found a distant nook to hide in. Lighting the candle, he breathed deeply as he knelt and rubbed his damp palms across his breeches, words freely tumbling from his lips.

Trials. Why was it Cullen’s favorite Canticle and why did it come so readily to him now?

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_

_I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm._

_I shall endure._

_What you have created, no one can tear asunder._

_Who knows me as You do?_

_You have been there since before my first breath._

_You have seen me when no other would recognize my face._

_You composed the cadence of my heart._

Alistair’s recitation faltered - his thoughts instantly springing to Cullen and the way their hearts typically beat in concert. Shaking himself, he valiantly continued; determined to see this through for Cullen’s sake.

_Through blinding mist, I climb_

_A sheer cliff, the summit shrouded in fog, the base_

_Endlessly far beneath my feet_

_The Maker is the rock to which I cling._

_I cannot see the path._

_Perhaps there is only abyss._

_Trembling, I step forward,_

_In darkness enveloped._

A chill ran up his spine as a stray thought crossed his mind. His eyes popped open and he whispered harshly. “Is that what you want? To trade darkness for light?”

No answer came, but his mind was already whirling. A decision that required no second-guessing emerged, and he nodded instantly. Clasping his hands more tightly, he leaned forward earnestly.

“Maker, hear my plea - trade me for Cullen. Let me walk in the abyss. Let me walk in darkness. I’m capable of bearing the weight and Cullen is too virtuous, too pure, for you to take him. His piety puts grown men to shame and he will be a loyal warrior of the faith. I’m nothing - unwanted, cast aside from birth, but he has a family who would be heartbroken to lose him.”

Alistair was sobbing now, having discovered a new font of tears to release at the Maker’s feet. “I know I’m bargaining and I have no right, but I beg you to consider it,” he intoned urgently. “I will do whatever you ask. Go wherever you bid - just let him _live_. My life is worthless, and he is worth a hundred of me. Spare him and take me instead. _Please,_ Maker, please. If you grant me one boon in life, this is the one I request. I’ll never ask for another, I swear.”

Gasping, he pressed his head to the cool stone flooded with his tears, relying on the breathing exercises he used to calm himself. An unique adaptation of the techniques fresh recruits learned to increase their stamina and prevent them from passing out during battle. A trick he once used daily to curb his anxiety or soothe his rage, but since meeting Cullen he rarely required anymore.

Pushing himself upright with a groan, he wiped his face with his sleeve, wincing at the throbbing in his temples. Rising to his feet, he stared at the flickering flame about to meet its end in the puddle of wax and hoped the Maker was in a listening mood.

Exiting the chapel, Alistair followed the hall to the storage room where the recruits were staying. Nodding imperceptibly to the boys lined along the blankets, he squeezed his taller frame in the center. He impatiently waited for the abbey to settle, buzzing with nervous tension, listening intently to guarantee the others were deep asleep before making his move.

His body told him it was past midnight when he carefully toed off his boots. At Rupert’s signal, he dashed into the hall on silent feet with Kai and Gavin at his back. Waving them to follow, he led them through the deserted side passages as they stole toward the dormitory. Once there, Alistair peeked cautiously around the last corner that would spit them into the main hallway.

Returning his head to the shadows, he hissed, “Sister Agnes is milling around. I need a distraction so I can reach our room.”

Kai grinned and pulled a dehydrated pepper from his pocket. “Down the hatch.”

Gavin stopped him with a concern expression. “Are you sure about this?”

He snorted softly. “Please, I grew up eating these. My mum sends them because she knows I love them. They’re like candy. I’ll be shitting fire for a week, but they don’t hurt my mouth. I’ll burn hot and sweat like crazy though. Trust me, it’ll work.”

The redhead arched an eyebrow. “So you carry them in your pocket at all times?”

“No,” Kai answered irritably. “That’s why I needed Easton earlier. To act as a distraction for me so I could get it out of my room.”

Gavin sighed. “If you’re sure. I mean, we could brawl in the hallway, that would work, too.”

Alistair glanced around the corner. “Hurry up and choose. I’m not waiting forever.” Kai smirked and popped the pepper in his mouth.

“Well, that decides it,” Gavin groaned. Alistair tried not to laugh as over the course of a few minutes, Kai’s face visibly flushed in response to the spicy heat and sweat pooled under his hair, running in rivulets across his face.

“How do I look?” he asked.

“Like you’ve got the sweat,” Gavin replied sardonically.

“Perfect,” he retorted. “Right, good luck, Alistair. If I fail to distract everyone, Gavin’s got you covered.”

Stepping into the hallway, Kai adopted a slumped posture, trailing his hand along the wall as though he required it to stay upright. Calling hoarsely down the hall, he caught the wandering Sister’s attention.

“Sister, please... help.” He stumbled and the woman cried out in alarm as she ran to him.

“Maker preserve us! Not you too! Come on, let’s get you into your bed.” Wrapping his arm around her shoulder, she assisted him to the last door in the hall.

Triple checking the corridor for any other lingering Sisters or Knights, Alistair nodded his thanks to Gavin and sprinted around the corner. Passing the first door, his heart raced in anxiety as he neared the next. Hand outstretched for the handle, his calloused fingers touched the metal when the smart clip of boots echoed behind him. Peeking over his shoulder he saw Gavin emerge from the shadows to distract the Knight as he slid silently into their room.

Leaning his head against the wood, he breathed a ragged sigh of relief, only to have the air ripped from his lungs when his eyes landed on Cullen. Illuminated by a guttering candle, his bare skin reflected a sheen of perspiration coating his flushed frame. His breathing was too rapid, irregular pants gusted through dry lips, and his eyelids quivered in fevered dreams.

Alistair took a moment to compose himself and stamp down the gut wrenching cry welling in his chest. Gathering his wits, he tossed aside his shirt and leather breeches and quietly pulled on a fresh pair of cloth sleep pants.

Gingerly, he crawled the length of the bed behind him and slipped under the thin sheet. Alistair hissed again at the heat radiating from his lover when he wrapped his arms around him, but he hadn’t come this far and risked discovery to not hold him. If Cullen died, he wasn’t dying alone and if the contagion spread to Alistair, so be it. He’d already made a deal with the Maker and he didn’t give a damn about himself.

Tenderly sweeping saturated curls from his forehead, Alistair whispered in his ear. “I’m here now, love. I’m not letting you go. Stay with me, Cullen. Please, stay with me.”

“Uh? Als’tair…” Cullen rasped.

Alistair swallowed the lump in his throat and pressed as close as possible, mindful that Cullen’s skin would be more sensitive with his nerve endings on fire. He registered his lover’s nudity under the sheets and winced at the indignity of someone stripping him, despite the necessity of it.

“Yes, love, it’s me. Can you hear me?” Cullen nodded faintly and his lips moved wordlessly. “What was that? What did you say?” Alistair raised his head and angled his ear toward his mouth.

“Sing... som’ing,” Cullen whispered. “Miss... voice.” Alistair’s heart lurched with unbridled affection as he choked on a sob.

“All right,” Alistair murmured thickly.

There was a song he’d finally memorized after hearing it during the Summerday festivities, but he hadn’t shared it yet. Tears pricked his eyes at the sobering realization this might be the only time he could sing it for Cullen. Andraste, he prayed that wasn’t the case. Swallowing quickly to wet his throat, he carefully situated the blonde under his chin so he could hear him as he crooned.

_When the nightingale sings,_

_The trees grow green,_

_Leaf and grass and blossom springs,_

_In Cloudreach, I believe._

_And love is to my heart gone_

_With a spear so keen,_

_Night and day my blood it drains;_

_My heart, to death it aches._

_I have loved all this past year_

_So that I may love no more;_

_I have sighed many a sigh,_

_Beloved, for your pity._

_To me love is never any nearer,_

_And that grieves me sore;_

_Sweetheart, think on me -_

_I have loved you long._

_Sweetheart, I pray you,_

_For one loving speech;_

_While I live in this wide world_

_None other will I seek!_

_With your love, my sweet beloved,_

_My bliss you might increase;_

_A sweet kiss of your lips_

_Would be my cure._

_Sweetheart, I pray you_

_For a love token:_

_If you love me, as men do say,_

_And beloved, as I think,_

_If it be your will,_

_Make sure that others see!_

_So much I think upon you_

_That I grow green._

_Between Amaranthine and Redcliffe,_

_Denerim and Highever,_

_I know no **man** so fair_

_As the one I'm in bondage to._

_Sweetheart, I pray you_

_to love me for a while!_

_I will sing my song_

_To the one to whom it belongs._

Alistair choked on the last line, but his lover didn’t notice his distress. Cullen’s breathing evened in his grasp; no longer an alarming struggle for air, which Alistair took as a good sign. Methodically, he scooted further into the bed, gently bringing Cullen with him. Once he fell into the dip, he rolled Cullen to face him and repositioned him under his chin so they were chest to chest. Running his fingers through his drenched hair, Alistair froze as footsteps halted near their door.

“Sister?” rumbled Ser Erlic in concern. “Is there anything I can do?”

The woman sniffled. “Not unless you wish to ring the bell. We lost the blonde lad.”

Dread settled like a boulder in Alistair’s stomach and he unconsciously clutched Cullen tighter, staring at his mop of golden curls dark with sweat.

Erlic sputtered in shock. “Not -”

Alistair assumed the Sister shook her head in the brief pause. “No; the other one, Macon.”

The knight muttered a quiet oath and Alistair bit his cheek to keep from unleashing a furious tirade at the Maker. His _friend_ \- gone. A strong, healthy man snuffed out like a candle.

He could practically hear the spectre gloating as it prowled the halls feasting on souls. Robbing them all of people they cared about. Friends and lovers, recruits and maids. While tutors, helpless to stop the scourge, watched their charges cross the Veil. How many others would they lose? How long before it claimed them all?

As the voices in the corridor comforted one another, the first clang of the bell disturbed the uneasy hush. Alistair’s heart sank knowing they would consign two recruits to the flames in the morning.

_In the absence of light, shadows thrive._

Terrified tears streamed along his face, collected by the pillow as he paid his toll under the incessant clamor.

* * *

**August 1, 9:26 Dragon**

Three weeks later the remaining denizens of the monastery stood in mourning with the villagers in front of the single pyre outside the gates. The Revered Mother read the names of those lost to "The Great Sweat," as the folk dubbed the sudden epidemic. Their region was not the only part of Ferelden affected during the close of summer. The cities were the hardest hit. Estimated casualties around the country, by healers comparing notes, were believed to be in the thousands.

Cullen leaned heavily against him even with his arm snug around his waist to support his weakened legs. Alistair’s index finger ran continuous circles along the face of his ring in anxiety. He wished Cullen had stayed in bed, but he knew he didn’t want to miss the memorial.

_All Souls Day._

It was a miracle any of them survived to honor those Death cruelly claimed. A quarter of those who fell ill in the abbey succumbed and another third of the villagers perished under the pestilence. After ransacking their peace and leaving them reeling, it departed on a fair summer’s day, as quickly as it came.

As he glanced at his lover, Alistair couldn’t contain the fear that coursed like ice through his veins when he recalled how close he came to losing him. The days and nights of caring for Cullen during his illness seemed interminable. But the night the younger warrior lost consciousness, pulse thready and weak under his fingers was, undoubtedly, the worst night of Alistair’s life.

The Sisters fretted and wrung their hands, warning him if Cullen recovered it would be miraculous. Only a handful of those stricken who reached this stage woke again. Alistair held vigil at his bedside reminding the Maker of their deal until his voice was hoarse and his sobs akin to dry heaves. Emotionally drained, he crawled under the sheets with him, skin to skin; in case it really was the last time he held the flaxen-haired boy indelibly branded on his soul.

A feather-light touch on his cheek roused him as the sun rose the next morning and when he opened his eyes, crystal clear amber held his gaze. Alistair’s exultant cry attracted a crowd of Sisters and Knights expecting to find Cullen cold and lifeless. Instead, they found the pair laughing through their tears, the borderline hysteria underlying their reunion as they clung to one another apparent to all.

_Alive._

He was alive. And while it pricked his conscience to be happy when so many others were no longer with them, Alistair was helpless to stop the bubble of elation welling in his chest. Drinking in his handsome chiseled features, less gaunt now, and those soft curls he adored resting lightly across his forehead, his heart overflowed with sheer joy.

Cullen felt the man’s gaze boring holes into him. Echoes of his brush with death likely flickering in his lover’s eyes, expression slightly haunted all these weeks later, and he forced the lump of guilt in his gut to stay where it belonged. He didn’t relish losing his meager dinner on some poor villager’s boots.

His illness frightened both of them. Faced with the reality of their mortality and the possibility of leaving the other behind, alone and heartbroken, left a wound they were still in the process of cleansing so it could heal. At least Alistair no longer treated him like glass in danger of shattering. Yet he was always nearby, ready to assist whenever he inevitably swallowed his pride and requested his aid.

Staring into the flames of the pyre countering the gaping maw of darkness, the symbolism struck Cullen differently than years past. Burning in the night, the fire reached for Heaven, undulating under a blanket of stars and he recalled a key passage from Transfigurations.

_As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,_

_She should see fire and go towards Light._

He very nearly _did_ ascend toward the Light and while Cullen believed he would be welcome at the Maker’s side, he knew with certainty he didn’t wish to go yet. By some blessed miracle of Andraste, he was alive, and though he mourned for those gone from this world too soon, he could not help selfishly thanking the Maker every day for giving him more time.

Turning his head, he met Alistair’s gaze. Ensnared by molten gold, he found himself captivated by Alistair’s tender yet ardent expression. No shadows danced across his face, save those from the fire and Cullen’s breath hitched in his lungs. He barely registered the Revered Mother concluding her sermon or the crowd dispersing around them.

Drawn into each other’s orbit, they slowly closed the space between them. Their lips brushed so gently Cullen thought he _would_ shatter from the extraordinary reverence inherent in the touch. In that instant, he realized Alistair may not believe in the Maker, but his lover venerated him. _Worshiped_ him. And though he knew he wasn’t worthy of the handsome son of a king who wore his fiercely loyal heart on his sleeve, in that moment he was never more grateful to be alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, well, first with any medieval era story there should be at least **one** plague. They were common and this gave me an opportunity to dig into their heads, especially Alistair, and touch on some things that will come into play later. The fact that Covid-19 is currently "ransacking" the world makes this chapter more poignant. Prior to this pandemic, I do not believe that most people understood or appreciated the ravages of a medieval scourge. Allow me to say, I wish _fervently and with my entire being_ that Covid did not exist, however, since it does now - I hope we can all walk away more educated on disease and pathogens to **prevent** further epidemics in the future. 
> 
> On that note, the "sweating sickness" was an actual disease that cropped up 4 times in England and once in mainland Europe, that we know of. Plagues of all sorts were believed to be carried by "miasma" or "plaguey air" (and for some that was true). The "sweat" was incredibly fatal (I toned down the death rate in the story, believe it or not) and it was possible to suffer it multiple times before dying. Today it is theorized the disease was actually a type of hantavirus, which even in the modern age, if not caught early and treatment administered has a 38% mortality rate. Of course, I took artistic liberties here to keep from killing everyone in the region. If you are a history and virology nerd like yours truly, research this stuff! It is _fascinating._
> 
> The song Alistair sings is an actual medieval ballad. Titled "When The Nyhtegale Singes" (ironic, I know!) it is catalogued in the Harley poetry collection in England. (Harley MS. c. 1310). Modern trans. from this [ site.](https://aclerkofoxford.blogspot.com/2011/04/medieval-love-poem.html) Verses further adapted to fit Thedas.
> 
> The "bread soppes" Margie offers to make for Alistair is a recipe that called for a "sop" or piece of bread, usually cut into rounds, to be put in a bowl of custard. Very likely one of the first translations of modern day bread pudding. Called "Lyode Soppes" since it is a milk-based dish, I simplified it in the story to make it more easily understood to modern readers. Recipe link [here,](http://giveitforth.blogspot.com/2016/01/harleian-ms-279-ab-1430-lyode-soppes.html) if anyone is feeling adventurous. 
> 
> [Chant of Light](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Chant_of_Light_verses) verses sourced from Dragon Age wiki. All verses from the Chantry scenes are taken from Trials.  
>  _In the absence of light, shadows thrive_ is Threnodies 8:21 (and is one of my personal fave Chantry verses).  
> Cullen's ending lines are Transfigurations 10:1 verses 15-16


	12. A Modicum of Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **tw: mention of derealization while struggling with traumatic events**

_“ Thus you may understand that love alone is the true seed of every merit in you, and of all acts for which you must atone.”_

_Mia,_

_We survived. Though whether by the Maker’s will or dumb luck, I doubt I’ll ever know._

_I hope you are all well. I’m sending Rosie the last summer rose. It bloomed late and the pale pink reminded me of a youthful flush on fair cheeks._

_Please tell her thank you for the daisy in her last letter and I’m sorry I missed her birthday. Eleven, already? I can’t believe it! I’ll send something extra special for Satinalia this year to make up for it. (I would appreciate ideas!)_

_I should also wish you an early happy birthday, Mia. It’s not every day the loveliest maiden in Ferelden turns twenty, after all. I would be remiss to not celebrate such a milestone._

_“Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness, Delicate lily of every lustiness, Richest in bounty and in beauty clear, And every virtue that is esteemed dear.”_

_Write soon. It will ease my heart to hear from you._

_Your brother,_

_Alistair_

~*~

_Mia,_

_I’m certain you were thrilled by the abundance of correspondence. Most was written prior to… everything. Writing helped us stay sane during the early days. We are both well, Maker be praised, though we lost many in the monastery and the local village._

_I pray all of you were spared. Though, I admit, I fear news of how you fared. How are Mama and Papa? Rosie and Branson? How are you, sister? I know your birthday is fast approaching - I am sorry I cannot be there to celebrate with you._

_Send word as soon as you can._

_Cullen_

* * *

**Kingsway 5, 9:26 Dragon**

_Cullen,_

_I am overjoyed to hear you are safe! We are unscathed, thank the Blessed Andraste. Honnleath was affected by the sweat, and we lost good people, but those here are proud and obstinate. When most would have abandoned the village, the other families have dug in their heels - even more determined to never leave. I don’t understand it, frankly._

_There have been discussions of Papa retiring and selling the store. Not anytime soon, mind, but a few years from now. I think he knows the only hope any of us have in getting married is to go where there are eligible men and women! Not only that, but Branson doesn’t have a head for business and Papa knows he has no desire to take over._

_Branson is apprenticing with Master Loren, the carpenter, and has repaired every building in the village at least once. He’s always been excellent with his hands and it gives him a sense of accomplishment to stand back from a job well-done, knowing he fixed it. You would be proud, brother; as I am, of both of you._

_Don’t fret about us; all of us are well. Rosalie is still a girl, dreaming of childish things. Maker bless her sweet innocence. I warn you now, should you and Alistair ever pay a visit, Rosie might faint dead away. Do be prepared to catch her before she hits the ground or you’ll be one to explain the goose egg on her head to Mama!_

_I beg you - be safe, Cullen. I don’t mean to sound patronizing. I know you are capable of taking care of yourself; you always have been. As you approach your sixteenth year and become a man, a warrior trained for battle, you prove that again. But I am your older sister and it's my job to worry._

Tears splashed the page, but he brushed them aside to save the ink.

_With that said, I’ll end this here, before you roll your eyes at me. Take care, Cullen, and know we love you._

_Much love,_

_Mia_

_~*~_

_Alistair dear,_

_Why do I feel the ominous line of poetry holds meaning? Is there something you aren’t telling me? You know I will hold your counsel, brother. I won’t give away your secrets, not even to Cullen._

_You may rest easy - none of us came down with the sweat, thank the Maker! I’m relieved to hear both of you were spared, as well. I’m thankful you and Cullen had one another to lean on during the pestilence. I would have worried myself to the bone had you been alone._

_You’ll be unsurprised to hear that Rosie adored your rose. She’s added it to her pressed collection. Oh dear, apparently I shouldn’t have told you she hoards your flowers like a squirrel shoring up for winter. ~~Don't listen to her, Alistair! Mia is a spinster who is jealous no one sends **her** pretty things! ~~  
_

Alistair snorted and continued to read.

_I’ll send you ideas for Satinalia, have no fear, but you must send us ideas for Cullen’s birthday! Sixteen! Maker, where did the time go! Let us know if you think of anything, otherwise Mama will knit him another scarf. As well-meaning as it would be, I’m sure a warrior coming of age will find it most unmanly, indeed._

_And you, ser! Such flattery! Does my brother know you flirt so shamelessly? (Please, don’t stop on my account! Maker knows, no one else pays me any mind and as long as it doesn’t bother Cullen, I’ll happily take your sweet declarations.)_

_Take care, brother mine. Know you are always in our thoughts and prayers._

_And Alistair, do not forget: “Of a rose, a lovely rose, of a rose is all my song... Such a rose to my liking, in all this world, never have I known one.”_

_Your sister,_

_Mia_

With a tremulous chuckle, Alistair folded his letter and glanced at Cullen sitting next to him hurriedly brushing tears from his cheeks. Taking the blonde’s hand, he squeezed it reassuringly.

“They’re all okay, Cullen. We can breathe easy.”

Shooting him a weak smile in reply, he whispered, “I know. Thank the Maker for good news. I didn’t realize how worried I was until I was holding the parchment.”

“I’m glad we decided not to tell them you were sick,” Alistair murmured.

“Me, too. It would have upset them unnecessarily.” Shaking himself, Cullen’s grin broadened and a mischievous twinkle lit up his gaze. “So, did Mia faint with your brazen flirtation?”

Alistair clamped his lips shut to rein in his laughter, but he snorted despite his efforts. “There is a possibility. I laid it on a little thick in my letter, but I knew it would cheer her up.” He peeked at his lover guiltily under dark lashes. “You’re sure you don’t mind Mia and I sharing bits of poetry? It’s something we have in common and it’s fun, but if it bothers you, I’ll stop.”

Cullen’s features softened as he cupped Alistair’s cheek fondly. “It doesn’t bother me. You’ve bonded over it and I like that you feel comfortable enough to share pieces of yourself with my family. I’m sorry poetry isn't more of an interest of mine. Sadly, I’m rather boring with my preference for history and military tactics,” he lamented with a shrug.

Pressing a kiss to his palm, Alistair chuckled lightly. “Don’t apologize. You’re not required to like _everything_ I do. It doesn’t make you boring or unromantic. You’re simply not interested in hearing others wax eloquent on love.”

Leaning slightly, he lowered his voice conspiratorially and Cullen’s lips curled at the impish expression on Alistair’s face. “Though, if I’m being honest, I much prefer your poetry.”

“Mine?”

Alistair nodded seriously. “Oh, yes. The poetry that falls like finest silk from your kiss-swollen lips when you gasp my name in pleasure, urging me faster, begging me to never stop, amidst a litany of breathless ‘I love you.’ There is no written poetry that could ever hope to match it, no matter how much they try.”

Fiery amber held his gaze, breath gusting harshly as the blush blooming on fair skin steadily trailed under his collar. Very deliberately, Cullen took their letters and laid them on top of the dresser without breaking eye contact. Alistair smirked lasciviously, arching a questioning brow as his lover snagged a fistful of his tunic and yanked him close.

“So,” Cullen whispered hoarsely in the crackling tension, “have you finally decided to stop treating me like glass?”

Licking his lips, Alistair murmured huskily. “Two months is too long and if you’re up for it, so am I.”

“Oh, I’m _up_ for it all right,” he replied with a wicked grin.

Snaking a hand to Cullen's neck, Alistair captured his lips with ferocious hunger. Hooking his other hand under his thigh, he encouraged Cullen to follow the motion, placing him squarely in the warrior’s lap. They broke the kiss once Cullen was perched on Alistair’s well-muscled legs, giving the blonde an opportunity to stare down at him, instead of the other way around.

Alistair’s fingers carded reverently through his hair, hazel eyes shining with devotion. Smirking from on high, Cullen snagged the hem of his tunic and tossed it across the room, baring his chiseled torso to the man under him. His head fell back with a groan as soft lips trailed along his collarbone before a warm tongue dipped into the hollow of his throat, while restless hands palmed taut muscle.

“What do you want?” Alistair whispered as he kissed the ivory expanse of skin with fervor.

“Everything,” Cullen immediately answered. Alistair slowly raised his head, their gazes locking as they recalled the first time almost two years ago when he’d said the exact same thing. “I want you,” Cullen breathed. “You _are_ everything to me, Alistair.”

Swallowing to wet his parched throat, Alistair croaked, “And you say _I’m_ the romantic.”

Cullen smiled and pressed their foreheads together. “You are a _hopeless_ romantic and I love that about you. Apparently it’s rubbing off on me. Promise you’ll never change.”

“I couldn’t if I tried,” he murmured, nuzzling Cullen’s nose.

“Mmm, perfect,” sighed the blonde as he eased his lover on his back. They quickly divested themselves of clothes and Cullen’s wrist cuff, piling them unceremoniously on the floor.

Tangled in a naked pile of limbs amid stifled laughter, the residual fear and pallor of the last couple months burned away; scaring off the demons of their recent haunting with ardent kisses and breathless pleas. Tracing the hills and valleys of skin with hands and tongues, they reacquainted themselves after too long apart. The reverent endearments tumbling past swollen lips were shared among soft smiles reserved for each other.

Trapped like an insect in amber, Alistair’s breath hitched at the intensity of Cullen’s gaze as the blonde rested on his forearms and caged him in place, his delicious mouth tantalizingly close. Rocking leisurely, they maintained the eye contact to anchor them in the maelstrom of emotion charging the air until it crackled. Fingers simultaneously threaded into hair and free arms slipped around trim waists bringing them completely flush.

Time slowed - perhaps it stopped - but for one eternal moment there was only them.

_Him._

Cullen mouthed his name - all breath, no sound - and tears pricked Alistair’s eyelids in response as he nodded faintly. Their lips met in a sweet kiss and his heart tried vainly to leap from his chest into the blonde above him, to match the racing cadence of his pulse alongside his own.

All his life Alistair sought someone to love him. He never expected to find it in the abbey, where he’d been thrown away and forgotten. Yet from the day they met, he cared for the younger recruit and knew someone cared for him in return. Cullen lavished him with unrestrained affection, believing he _deserved_ it. The once shy boy had grown into a confident and self-assured warrior, in part because of their relationship and Alistair’s constant encouragement. He couldn’t be prouder of Cullen and what they shared.

Yet, Alistair nearly lost him. The errant thought sent a shiver up his spine, a desperate buzz of sheer terror electrifying his nerves. The weight of Cullen's broad frame, the taste of him on his tongue, and murmured praises as they chased their end soothed his anxiety. Alistair’s fears were momentarily erased when his senses were overwhelmed, _subsumed_ , by his lover’s touch and he caved to the crush of emotion.

He didn’t bother to quiet his exclamation as the world turned white. Alistair only cared for the man with musical laughter and a gentle soul. The man with a rapier wit and keen intelligence. The man who rivaled him in strength, yet caressed him with tenderness. The man who celebrated his accomplishments and inspired him to be a better person.

All that mattered was Cullen - the man he loved and who, astonishingly, loved him.

Slowly returning from his high, he found Cullen still poised above him, brushing away the tears trickling across his face. Smiling softly, the blonde murmured, “There you are. I hope those are happy tears.”

Alistair managed a wan smile, his voice scratchy when he replied. “They are. That was just… very emotional.” He blushed while his lover settled next to him and interlocked their fingers. “I feel you spoiled me and I haven’t done enough for you. If you recall, that was meant to be about you and somehow it ended up being about me.”

“It’s not a competition, love,” Cullen replied. “Some days I’m more affectionate, some days you are, some days we make the entire monastery ill.” Alistair snorted quietly, unable to hold his stare for long. “Besides, I enjoy spoiling you,” he continued. “You spoil me all the time and rarely let me return the favor.”

Propping his head in his hand, Cullen rolled closer, his warm expression filling Alistair’s vision. “But that’s not the actual reason, is it?”

Clamping his lips tightly together, Alistair’s nostrils flared as he reined in another round of tears at the simple question. Shadows darkened his gaze as memories he wished he could forget flashed through his mind and Cullen’s brow furrowed in concern. Squeezing the fingers threaded through his, Alistair swallowed hard and whispered.

“You’re _here_. Sometimes… it doesn’t feel real. I-I know I should be over it by now, but it still catches me by surprise now and then. Especially… especially when…” A broken whimper tumbled from his lips as words failed him. The confession seized Cullen’s heart like a vice and he wrapped an arm around Alistair's shoulders to close all distance between them.

“I’m alive, Alistair. I promised you I would never leave. I fought _like hell_ to stay with you,” he choked.

Gold flashed in his periphery a second before Alistair’s ringed thumb caressed his cheek. “I know, love. You always uphold your oaths,” he rasped. A rush of air fluttered across his damp curls as he raggedly exhaled. “It’s passing, but it will take time. Please… be patient with me.”

Squeezing him hard, Cullen croaked in the crook of his neck. “Of course.” Silence settled between them, only interrupted by the occasional sniffle or jagged breath. After a lengthy pause, the older warrior cleared his throat.

“Will you… be alright while I’m gone?” Alistair asked.

Nodding curtly, he answered. “Yes. I’ll miss you like mad, but I’ll be okay.”

“I don’t want to go. I’d never leave you again if I had a choice -”

“I know, but you must. Summer’s already passed and with it too many opportunities for missions. Our lives are not our own.”

Grumbling with displeasure at the validity of the statement, Alistair continued. “It’s a quick mission. No more than a week, provided nothing throws us off schedule.”

“Yes,” Cullen whispered. “And just think, winter will come soon and snow us in for a few months. Which means no missions, only boredom. We must put your pranks to use to keep us all from going stir crazy.” His attempt at levity worked, pulling a breathy chuckle from Alistair.

Leaning out of the embrace, Cullen's burnished gaze bored into him. “I’m not giving you a chance to sneak out in the morning, Alistair. I’m sending you off myself. No arguments.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he murmured, capturing his lips for a kiss. “Have I told you I love you?” he whispered.

Cullen’s arms tightened around him. “Never enough.”

“Maker be praised, it’s not just me,” Alistair joked, gratified to hear his answering chuckle.

“We should get cleaned up so you can get some sleep. You must be ready before dawn to march.”

Alistair nodded sadly, and the pair rolled out of bed, grabbing a spare towel and sponging off at the corner basin before slipping back under the sheets. Cullen curled under his lover’s chin, fingers lightly brushing through the russet hair on his chest.

He understood Alistair’s complex emotions. Readjusting to life following his illness was a struggle for him, as well, but their intimate re-connection was a reminder of what they nearly lost. A _permanent_ loss.

Maker, what would he do without Alistair? What would Alistair do without _him?_ Nothing good, he was certain.

“Promise me something,” Cullen whispered.

“Anything,” Alistair immediately affirmed. Though he couldn’t see Cullen’s smile in the dark, lips curved against his chest, undoubtedly pleased with his quick response.

Pressing his palm over the steady beat of Alistair’s heart, Cullen murmured, “Please come back to me.”

Leaning out of the embrace, Alistair cupped his face, his gaze swirling with emotions too fleeting to name. “I swear to come back, Cullen. Alive and in one piece. I won’t abandon you.”

Nodding, he bit his lip. “I know you can’t truly guarantee -”

“I _can_ and I _will._ I’m not dying on the field. I’ll come home and spend a perfectly boring winter here with you, I swear. I’ve never been so excited to be snowed in the abbey before.”

Cullen grinned with him. “Me either. Maybe we can improve your chess skills enough for you to graduate from mediocre.”

“Oh, ha ha. You and the others can have fun with that, thanks very much. Here I was hoping we could spend more time in bed,” he teased, sliding a hand into his curls.

Rolling his eyes playfully, the blonde retorted, “Of course, count on you to think how often we can sleep together instead of improving our skills.”

“That _is_ how we improve our skills.”

“ _Training_ skills, you fiend.”

Heaving a melodramatic sigh, Alistair quipped, “Well, one of us has to be the boring one in the relationship. Glad it’s not me.” Cullen elbowed him gently in the ribs, chuckling along with his lover’s bright laughter.

Rubbing their noses together, Alistair hummed in contentment. “You’re my other half, Cullen. I have to come back to remain whole.”

“I know,” he murmured with a smile. Tilting his head slightly, he pressed a soft kiss to Alistair’s full lips, melting into the snug embrace accompanying it. “Thank you,” Cullen breathed when they separated after a few heartbeats.

“I love you,” Alistair rumbled quietly.

“And I love you.” Snuggling into their original positions, they drifted into peaceful sleep, eager for winter and hopeful the week of separation would pass quickly.

* * *

Drawing on his will, Cullen uncoiled the mental spring and released his power. It flowed vigorously through his veins, creating a field of negative energy. With ease, he directed it across the room to the fire rune flickering on the stone, rolling like a fog bank over the protected circle and snuffing the enchantment instantly.

“Damn, Cullen. You’re the best out of everyone now,” Rupert stated when he picked up the now cold rune. “I think you’ll be able to move onto Smites soon.”

Grinning, he shot his friend a cocky eyebrow over the lip of his water cup. “Maybe, but I’m content to wait until the Knights agree.”

Rupert snorted softly as he flipped the specialized training rune in his palm. “I’m sure they are waiting for Alistair to return. They know you two prefer to practice together. Besides, despite your relationship, you two do not hold back when you train. It makes you better, I think.”

Blushing, the blonde ducked his head. “We’ve always been that way. He was the one to help me get caught up with everyone else. Alistair is patient, but he’s not lenient, by any means. We would train for _hours_ until our legs gave out and our lungs burned.” Cullen chuckled at the memories. “I guess we never broke the habit.”

“No, you didn’t,” laughed Rupert. “You’ve just channeled it into different _areas,_ shall we say.”

Throwing a rag at Rupert’s head, Cullen clicked his tongue. “Shut up! It’s not like _that,_ either! Maker’s breath, I’m surrounded by idiots with one thing on the brain.”

“I know, Cullen! I’m only teasing you. We’ve all watched you together over the years - thick as thieves since the day you arrived. None of us are as daft as you would like to believe.” Rupert laughed as the blonde’s flush deepened. “The pair of you, I swear! Blushing like two virginal maidens when the entire monastery is well aware what you get up to when you’re alone!"

“Fuck you,” grumbled Cullen.

Doubling over with belly laugh, his friend waved his hand wildly in the air. “No, no, thank you! I’ll leave that to Alistair. You’re not really my type, Cullen. No tits, for one.”

Snorting, he quipped, “If you want those, there are plenty in the village.” His amber eyes twinkled mischievously, “Or maybe Hayden would be to your liking. He’s… pillowy.”

Tears streamed down Rupert’s face as they chortled. “Oh, Maker, no! I should have said no tits _and_ you have a prick. Not to mention you _are_ one.”

“I have an excellent sense of humor, though,” Cullen stammered through exuberant laughter.

“That is the only thing you have going for you, but I’m still not fucking you.”

“Thank the Maker!” Cullen playfully exclaimed while Rupert dried his cheeks with his sleeve.

“Come on,” Rupert said as he carefully replaced the rune in a leather side pocket of the open trunk. “Let’s find the others and see who’s up for a game of chess or a turn in the ring.”

Glancing at one another askance, they snorted simultaneously trying to rein in another round of breathless snickers while they made their way through the abbey. Following Rupert into the library, the warriors gathered their friends scattered in the room. Once they found Gavin and Kai, the four decided on paired sparring to pass the time.

“Inside or out?” asked Kai.

Peeking out the window, Gavin stated, “Out. It’s mid-afternoon and not much of a breeze. Shouldn’t be too cold.” Agreeing to the plan, they piled in the courtyard, arming themselves with the training equipment.

“Right, who’s pairing with whom?” questioned Rupert.

“Gavin with me,” said Cullen. “Change things up a bit.”

“Sounds great,” Gavin said with a grin.

Nodding to one another across the pitch, they advanced in tandem, reading every move and facial expression for a sign of their opponents’ intent. Kai broke formation and dashed around Gavin, forcing him to wheel and expose his flank to Rupert, but Cullen sidestepped to guard his back, lifting his shield to deflect the incoming blow. With a grunt, Cullen shoved him, using the momentum to crowd his space and rake his sword across Rupert’s shield before spinning aside. Gavin swore when Kai feinted, allowing him to get a hit on the redhead’s ribs.

Kai chuckled softly. “One-one.”

Circling the ring, they cautiously regrouped, sharing signals behind their shields with their partner while keeping their faces impassive. Kai rushed Cullen, and he quickly dodged, keeping his shield angled to prevent leaving an opening. Rupert dashed behind him, but he crouched and spun, catching the man’s boot enough to unbalance him. As he floundered, Gavin barreled into him and sent him sprawling to the sound of Cullen and Kai’s swords clashing on the field.

Seeing an opportunity Kai lunged, but the blonde slammed the edge of his shield under Kai’s forearm throwing off his aim. Cullen smirked as he pressed the advantage, aware his friend’s fingers were likely tingling from the hit, weakening his grip. Kai retreated when he advanced, searching for an opening. When Kai flicked his shield in challenge, Cullen noticed the man’s fingers flexing unconsciously on his hilt and he rushed him, sliding his blade under the crossguard. Flicking his wrist, Cullen sent the practice sword end over end and pushing with his left shoulder knocked Kai flat on his back. Before his friend could even catch his breath, Cullen lightly rested his sword to his neck.

“I think we won that match,” Cullen announced with a smile.

Grinning from the ground, Kai nodded. “Yeah, you did.” Chuckling, Cullen extended a hand to help him up, regrouping with the others in the center of the ring.

Gavin shook his head with a bemused expression. “Watching you fight, Cullen, is crazy. I can’t tell if you use Alistair’s techniques or if he uses yours, but your style is almost exactly the same. When we killed those bandits on our mission, he moved like you.”

Cullen dropped the shield he’d unbuckled with a dull thud, staring at Gavin in shock. “What did you say?” he rasped.

The redhead frowned in confusion. “That you and Alistair move the same way on the field,” he replied with minor annoyance.

Breathing harshly out of his nose, Cullen reined in the waves of nausea coursing through him. “No,” he demanded. “The other part. About bandits.”

The three warriors’ eyes widened, and Gavin swallowed hard. “I-I thought you knew.” Cullen clenched his jaw with a glare, silently demanding an explanation. Glancing at the ground to steady himself, Gavin spoke.

“On our mission, the Chantry sisters of the village we stayed at told us animals were raiding their crops. Ser Rolf led us to clear out the pests, but it turned out to be a small group of bandits. We outnumbered them and had the element of surprise, so it wasn’t much of anything, really.”

“Except you killed people that day, Gavin,” growled Cullen. “It was your first time blooding your blade, wasn’t it?” The man nodded sadly.

Digging his nails into his palms, Cullen pleaded, “Please tell me Alistair only fought them, but didn’t kill anyone.” Gavin hung his head regretfully and Cullen forced down the bile rising in his throat.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he hissed, swaying slightly on his feet, his head unusually light and fuzzy. “Alistair, why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered.

Rupert snagged his elbow, steadying him so he didn’t fall over, concern etched on his features. “Hey, he’s a warrior. I’m sure it’s not a big deal, and he probably didn’t want to worry you. Remember, you weren’t doing so well without him, after all.”

The bile returned, tasting of guilt and ash, searing his soul with the horrific realization he was responsible.

 _Maker_.

Alistair never told him because of his issues with the storms and Landon. Knowing his lover, he probably didn’t want to bring it up later and then the sweat came and he nearly died. Alistair had lived with this for _months._ Cullen knew this was eating him inside. Warrior or no, Alistair wasn’t a hardened thug and the first time he took a man’s life would severely upset his sensitive nature.

Shaking his head, Cullen choked, “You don’t understand. It’s my fault. Oh, Maker! He didn’t tell me because -” He broke off with a ragged gasp. “I can’t talk about it. But I know him and he won’t be able to shrug this off. Just because it’s part of the job, doesn’t mean it’s easy. Isn’t that right, Gavin?” he asked, narrowing his amber eyes.

The man in question shook his head with a heavy sigh. “No, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Training doesn’t prepare you for that and I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, either.”

“Nor should you,” Cullen snapped, color rising in his fair cheeks. “Whether or not they deserved it, you ended a man’s life! While that is something all of us will have to get accustomed to, it doesn’t mean we forget. And the first one cuts the deepest. Even I know that and I’ve yet to be in such a position myself. Alistair is not -” Reining in his spiraling anger, he huffed and squared his shoulders. “He is not callous, but this could _make_ him so if the damned fool doesn’t talk about it.”

Kai opened his mouth to respond, but Gavin stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’re right, Cullen. I came back after that mission and told Easton about it. I had to talk it out, too.” Glancing at the others, he jerked his chin defiantly, “So will you, when you have to do the same and you’re a damn liar if you say you don’t.”

They stood in awkward silence for a moment; the others unsure how to comfort their friend, while Gavin and Cullen chewed on their individual guilt. Scoffing in irritation, Cullen grabbed his shield and quickly racked his weapons in the corner.

“I’m sorry,” Gavin murmured behind him. “I honestly thought you knew. I assumed he’d spoken to you about it.”

Shooting him a weak smile, Cullen patted his shoulder. “Don’t be. I’m grateful I know now.”

“Will you force him to talk about it when he gets back?” Gavin sighed in relief at Cullen’s brusque nod. “He, uh, helped steady me after the battle, but I don’t think he had anyone help him. He was more concerned about returning to the abbey as soon as possible.”

The blonde stiffened, but his friend reassured him. “I’m not trying to pry, Cullen. I know couples have secrets between them. I’m only telling you how things happened.”

Cullen inclined his head in silent thanks. Clearing his throat, he asked, “How… how _did_ he handle the skirmish?” Rupert and Kai winced as he unconsciously traced the love knot etched on his wrist cuff.

“Not well,” the warrior mumbled.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Cullen sighed as he exited the ring and headed inside.

Weaving through the quiet halls of the monastery, he recalled the morning of Alistair’s departure. Awakened before dawn by Ser Erlic rapping on the door, they dressed quickly in the dark. Cullen helped Alistair into his plate, though he didn’t require help, however, it occupied his trembling fingers. If Alistair noticed his anxiety, he thankfully didn’t comment on it. Though, looking back, he should have realized Alistair’s unusual silence indicated something amiss, but he hadn’t.

Slipping in their room, Cullen leaned against the door, bringing to mind their frantic goodbye at the abbey entrance. His shoulders pressed into the wood as Alistair pinned him in place and kissed him senseless, leaving him gasping for breath when Ser Erlic tapped Alistair’s shoulder with a tolerant chuckle.

Diving in for one more brief taste of his lips, Alistair urgently vowed, “I’ll be back, love. One week and I’ll be here with you, where I belong.”

Cullen nodded, unable to speak, and watched the procession of warriors even after they were no longer visible. The memory of Alistair’s forlorn glance over his shoulder emblazoned in his mind. Margie eventually collected him with an understanding smile and led him to the kitchen, plying him with fresh sticky buns and piping hot tea. The maids prattled incessantly about the local gossip, slowly drawing him out of the shell he reverted into whenever Alistair left.

At the time Cullen merely assumed Alistair’s insistent promise was for his sake - a reminder of the oath Cullen made him swear the night before. Now, though, he could see it was a desperate affirmation to _himself_ that he would come home alive.

Slamming his head against the door, Cullen cursed angrily when Alistair’s promise rang in his ears. _I **can** and I **will**. I’m not dying on the field. _

Fuck! He’d been so blind.

Alistair had done nothing but care for him and support him; physically, mentally, and emotionally, over the last five and a half months. First, in dealing with Landon and his repressed trauma so he could regain control of his fear and stop starting with every unexpected noise. Then, following Cullen’s near fatal illness, Alistair trained with him in increments, focusing on Templar abilities to allow his body to fully recover. Ever patient and gentle, Alistair devoted his time to aiding him, but Cullen never noticed his lover needed him to return the favor.

Burying his face in his hands, Cullen sank to the floor, releasing the dam on the guilt welling in his soul and wept bitterly. Andrastre have mercy, he was a horrible person, a selfish lover. He _knew_ Alistair better than this - he should have seen the signs. He should have been there to support him.

“I’m so sorry, love. Please forgive me. I swear, I’ll make this right,” he whimpered on the stone, the cold leaching through his breeches mimicking the icy regret chilling his blood.

* * *

Chuckling softly, Alistair ducked into their room and quickly shucked his Templar issue, changing into fresh clothes before flying through the monastery to the outdoor training yard. He’d thought of nothing except getting home to Cullen all week and he couldn’t wait to see him.

Spotting the blonde curls he adored fluttering in the autumn breeze, Alistair broke into a run and tackled him with a boisterous shout. Angling his body on the way down to ensure he took the brunt of the fall, he pulled Cullen on top of him, their combined laughter ringing throughout the courtyard.

Turning his head slightly on his lover’s chest, Cullen’s eyes met his, wearing a grin to match the impish one lighting Alistair’s features. “That was quite a greeting,” he rumbled in an undertone.

“I missed you like mad and was excited to see you again.” Alistair nuzzled his stubbled cheek with his nose. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Alistair,” he replied in exasperation. “I’ve told you, I am _not_ embarrassed by us in the least. I-I _like_ it, actually,” Cullen murmured with a blush.

The warrior’s slow smirk sent flutters through Cullen. Sliding him off his broad chest onto the ground, Alistair hovered over him, his words sultry and teasing when he replied. “You want everyone to be jealous, is that it?” Alistair’s smirk widened into a grin when the blonde swallowed hard, his cheeks flaring under his intense gaze. “You do! Tsk, tsk, Cullen. Whatever am I going to do with you?”

Finding his voice, Cullen retorted with a mischievous smile, “I can think of a few things.” Barking out a stunned laugh, Alistair’s eyes shone with pure adoration for the man under him, joy coursing through him to see the same reflected in Cullen’s. Shrugging self-consciously, Cullen murmured, “Maybe I do want them to be a little jealous. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

Alistair’s smile softened, brushing his hand sweetly across his scarlet cheeks. “Not a damn thing wrong with it, love. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want the same. I’m proud of you and what we have.”

“So am I,” Cullen affirmed. “Let them see. Let them hear. Let them wish they had what we have, because I am not holding back anymore, Alistair.”

“Neither am I,” Alistair whispered reverently while he descended on his mouth with a blissful sigh.

They moaned quietly in unison when their lips met. A week wasn’t the longest they’d gone without the daily embraces they were accustomed to, but for Cullen the last four days had been interminable. He knew what Alistair carried in his heart, what grieved his soul so much he refused to discuss it. The awareness of his lover's pain revealed the desperate edge of the kiss as it deepened. Try as Alistair might to shield him, he noted the too-sharp tug of fingers in his hair and the faint tremble of broad shoulders under his palm. Alistair was capable of carrying his share of burdens, but he wasn’t immutable.

This time Cullen intended to be whatever Alistair needed, instead of the other way around. Separating reluctantly, Cullen pressed their foreheads together and whispered. “Come with me to the tower. We need to talk.”

“Is something wrong?” Alistair asked, searching his face for a hint of what caused him to bank the flame between them before it grew too hot.

The blonde smiled kindly as he sat up, extending a hand to help his lover to his feet. “Trust me.”

“Always,” Alistair responded warmly as he stood.

Together they entered the building, leisurely strolling the side passages to their tower. Once there, with the entrance half-obscured by the cover stone, Cullen followed Alistair’s lead and leaned against the wall.

“So, what did you want to discuss? Or were you hoping for something else since you have me all to yourself, far away from prying ears?” the golden warrior teased.

Smirking, Cullen shook his head in reply. “Not just yet anyway.” His lover’s eyes flashed wickedly as the promise of _later_ thickened the air.

Glancing at the ground, Cullen cleared his throat. “I was talking to Gavin the other day,” he murmured, careful to keep his words from accidentally carrying beyond their reach. Alistair’s shoulders tightened imperceptibly. To anyone else it would have gone unnoticed, but even the barest hint of discomfort stirred Cullen’s guilt for not noticing Alistair’s struggle sooner.

“You know I love you, Alistair. I’m willing and able to help you with your burdens, too.”

“I couldn’t -”

Cupping Alistair’s cheek with his hand, Cullen murmured, “I know and that was the right decision, but you could have told me anytime afterward. I’m not fragile and I want to help you.”

Alistair leaned into the touch, seeking comfort he’d been aching for, but didn’t believe he deserved. Trembling, Alistair worked his jaw as he tried to verbalize all the conflicting emotions rolling in his gut, crawling under his skin, making him feel unclean and unworthy of Cullen’s sympathy. Shaking his head vigorously, he tried to step out of the embrace, but the blonde followed and caught his hand. Amber eyes bore into his, entreating and gentle.

“I should have noticed,” Cullen continued, his voice tight with grief. “It shouldn’t have fallen to Gavin to tell me something has bothered you for _months_. I’m so sorry, Alistair. Please don’t shut me out now. I am _here_ for you. I have been here for you since the day I arrived for training. I have never regretted it, nor will I blame you for what you are forced to do on the field.”

Cupping his lover's neck, Cullen closed the distance between them, pressing their foreheads together as silent tears rolled down their cheeks. “Please, Alistair. You’ve held onto this for so long and you don’t have to anymore. Just like Maric, I will give you whatever you need, but do not hold onto this.”

The smell of blood filled Alistair’s nostrils and his stomach clenched as flashes of the skirmish replayed in his mind, but his mouth was full of cobwebs. Tangling his tongue in sticky strands, trapping the words in his throat as repressed emotions watered the ancient stone.

Cullen cradled him as he wept, their tears mingling under their feet. Regret for innocence lost, their apologies unspoken, yet communicated in the way they clung to one another. Their personal port in any storm; safe and sheltered. Where they guarded themselves from the lashes of a cruel world, protected their hearts from being dashed against life’s jagged coasts, and guaranteed they walked away from trouble whole. Maybe not unscathed, but this way they remained unbroken.

Neither were boys anymore - they understood mortality and were well-versed in the ruthlessness of life, but they could do this. Small though it might be; they could support one another and provide words of love and encouragement. Sometimes it was all they had to give, but it was enough.

After an indeterminate amount of time, Alistair calmed enough to whisper into his shoulder. “It was too easy. It shouldn’t have been so easy. Muscle memory kicked in and I just… _reacted_ the way they trained us.” He angrily balled Cullen’s tunic in his fists. “I _know_ it was kill or be killed, but that doesn’t change how disgusted I felt afterward. I watched the life disappear from his eyes while he bled out. I _killed_ a man and left him on the ground like he was nothing.”

Cullen’s breath hitched slightly at the admission, and Alistair huffed bitterly. “Yeah, I know. We didn’t have a way to cart the bodies back to the village, but Ser Rolf informed the local Templars when we returned. Presumably they handled things from there. I went with the recruits to the tavern and numbed myself with ale.”

“All I could think after,” Alistair hissed, “when the clearing was stained red, was how precise it had been. We were good little soldiers, and we didn’t even question our orders. It was shocking and disturbing to realize they’ve trained us to kill without a second thought. I know that’s what warriors do - we train for war. We kill those who are dangerous, but there was no victory in that, Cullen. Only death: the bandit’s and mine. When you kill a man, you kill a part of yourself, too. They say it gets easier, but I’m not sure that’s any better, honestly,” he mumbled.

Sucking in a ragged breath in the silence, Cullen carded his fingers through Alistair’s hair. He wasn’t wrong, which he knew without needing to experience it for himself. Training for battle with practice swords was one thing. Wielding a honed blade and ending another’s life because your superior commanded it was something else entirely. He wasn’t sure what he could say to be comforting in his heartbreak, but he would try.

“I’m sorry, love,” Cullen murmured in his ear while his other hand trailed soothingly along his spine. “I can’t imagine how difficult it was and I’m sorry you’ve carried this so long. You’re right to never forget it - remember, our emotions make us human. I don’t want to say it will become easier, because that’s not who you are. It will never be easy, but you are _strong_ , Alistair. You are a warrior and not just with a sword.”

Leaning out of the embrace, Cullen pressed his palm over Alistair’s heart. “You’re a warrior where it matters. Most people would be bitter and cold if they’d experienced half of what you’ve gone through as a child, but you are noble, kind, and forgiving. Don’t forget to extend yourself the same courtesy you give to those who once abused you.”

Alistair swallowed hard and cupped his face between trembling hands. “Maker, Cullen, what did I do right to deserve you? I don’t know how you have so much faith in me or how you always know what to say, but I’m so grateful for you. Thank you for forcing me to get this off my chest. I think I’ll be okay now. I just need time.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Cullen replied, his cheeks pink with embarrassment at Alistair’s praise. “Is there anything you want to do before dinner? Get your mind off things.”

“Yes,” he murmured. Raising Cullen’s left hand, Alistair's fingers reverently mapped the sailor’s knot carved into the wrist cuff. “There is something I want to do.”

“What's that?” he whispered.

“I want to kiss you, Cullen. Your lips on mine, your breath in my lungs, your skin against me is the only time I feel complete. No matter where I go or how long we’re apart, I will always come home to you. For neither time nor distance can change what you are to me. You are my everything.”

Choking slightly as he absorbed the words, Cullen finally recovered enough to croak, “Did you read that in a book and memorize it?”

Tilting him by the chin, Alistair shook his head, a blush darkening his features as he closed the distance between them. “No, I wrote it. About you,” he breathed as their lips met, swallowing Cullen’s answering whimper and bringing them both home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Top quote from Dante's Canto XVII of “Purgatory” 
> 
> [Quote is #20 on the list](http://topfamousquotes.com/dante-alighieri-quotes/)
> 
> To A Lady, William Dunbar 1465-1520? - Alistair's 2nd quote
> 
> Of A Rose, Anonymous c. 1350 - Mia's quote
> 
> [Find them here!](https://www.amblesideonline.org/PoemsYr7.shtml#balade)


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